


Between Frontlines

by Jlocked, The_Lady_of_Purpletown



Series: Frontlines [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Afghanistan, Alternate Universe, Army, Case Fic, Character Death, Chatting & Messaging, Crime, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Implied Torture, M/M, Military, Online Friendship, Online Relationship, Rape, Undercover, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:46:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 61,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jlocked/pseuds/Jlocked, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lady_of_Purpletown/pseuds/The_Lady_of_Purpletown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Captain John Watson is serving in Afghanistan when he receives an email from a consulting detective who needs his help for a case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fie made a wonderful cover for this story.

_Disclaimer: Neither of us have any history with the military. So the details from life in Afghanistan are based on movies, online research and guess work. There are probably quite a lot of mistakes, but to those of you who know better: please don't point them out in the reviews. We've done our best, and once the story is published we can't change it anyway. All other reviews are of course very welcome._

_-Thanks to Fie for the original idea, from which this story has evolved.-_

 

-

 

Lieutenant Morstan looked around the small pub. It wasn't really a pub, but that was how homesick British soldiers had decided to classify the small unlicensed bar in what used to be private residence in the village of Maiwand.  
She, like the rest of the patrons, was stationed at the base barely a mile to the north. When they were off duty there were two options: sleep or go to 'the Pub'. Well, at least for most of them. A few lucky bastards got special leave to go to Kandahar for a couple of days. Important bastards, like the medical personnel they all depended on.  
She did not begrudge them, but as she sat waiting for her mate to arrive, she didn't know if she was dreading or anticipating hearing about his weekend 'on the town'.  
As the door opened, too bright daylight flooded the small dusty room. She recognised the silhouette and waved.  
With a wide grin, John walked towards her and kissed her cheek. "Hey there. Missed me, Morstan?"  
"Every moment apart was agony, Watson," she teased, and handed him a beer. "You look inordinately smug. I take it things went well with your little... What was she? A nurse?"  
He chuckled. "Yes, it was fun. But I bet things were even more exciting around here." He tilted his head in the direction of the door.  
She sighed. "As exciting as usual. Two minor skirmishes, a couple of scraped knees and one split lip. You wouldn't have had anything to do, even if you had been here." Then she paused and raised an eyebrow. "Are you deflecting, Watson?"  
"I wouldn't dare, and I don't see a reason either. Let's just say I haven't seen much of the town apart from a certain bed in it." He looked smug and put his beer to his lips.  
"I knew it." She snorted. "She was all over you when she was down here." She sipped her own beer. "So what did it take? Just a 'hello' or did you have to buy her dinner first?"  
"Trying to find out how to protect yourself against my charms?" John asked, looking amused.  
"No," she laughed out right. "But I'm not exactly getting any action in this place. At least not of the good kind. So I have to live vicariously through you. Hell... If I had the chance I'd probably have shagged her too, I'm that desperate."  
"Oh, you didn't have to be desperate to do that, have you seen her?" he laughed.   
"Yeah," Mary laughed. "Not really my type. Nice girl though."  
"But you're right that it wasn't too difficult. At least not for me." He winked and downed his beer.  
She raised her own beer in a mock salute. "Oh you are quite a piece of work, aren't you? No one can resist the great Captain John Watson. Army doctor extraordinaire. A woman in every city, right?"  
"And not just on one continent," John shrugged, smiling, before ordering two other pints.  
"Of course not. I would hardly expect that you haven't done a fair bit of shagging back home." She chuckled.  
"Yeah. And then I've travelled a bit as a student..."   
"Oh?" she raised an eyebrow again. "Do tell."  
John chuckled. "I'm sure you get the idea about what happened." Still, he was happy to tell the whole story, and they kept exchanging experiences during quite a few more beers, before they realised it was getting late and they caught a ride back to the base.  
As John entered his room in the barracks, he turned on his laptop . The few days in the city had the disadvantage that he had to leave his possessions, and although he doubted there would be any messages from home - Harry always had better things to do than mailing her brother to keep him up to date - he thought it was better to check his mail anyway. To his surprise, there were two actual messages for him. One was from an old friend, asking the usual stuff about how life was in Afghanistan. He didn't recognize the other sender's name and only opened the mail after sending a quick answer to his friend.

***

To: Capt. J. Watson  
Subject: Col. S. Moran

I was referred to you by doctor Stamford at St Bartholomew's Hospital, London, regarding a former member of your unit. I have been made to understand that you may have first hand knowledge of the incidents prior to the dishonourable discharge of Colonel Moran earlier this year.  
I need as much detail as you can provide.

S. Holmes.

***

John frowned at the email and started typing an answer.

***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: Col. S. Moran

Mr. Holmes,

What happened with Colonel Moran lies behind us. I don't know why this information is of importance to you and maybe it's politer to introduce yourself first anyway.  
Say hi to Mike Stamford from me. It's been quite a while. Are you a friend of his?

Kind regards,  
John Watson

***

With an incredulous shake of his head, he shut down his computer. Then he undressed and went to bed.

...

"Do you know anyone who is called Sherlock Holmes?"   
"No," Mary frowned as she sipped her tea. "That's a funny name."  
"Yeah, so I thought. Maybe it's false," John mused. "He sent me a mail. Well, I suppose it's a he. Asked about Sebastian Moran."  
Mary shivered slightly. "That creep? Why would anyone want to know anything about him?"  
John shrugged. "I don't know. He wasn't extremely polite about asking either. I didn't tell him anything."  
"You should find out why he wants to know. He could be a mate of Moran's. Snooping for him."  
"That's what I thought. How does he even know about the situation?" John frowned.  
She considered for a moment. "Well, he has been back in England for a couple of months. He could have been talking about it. Or maybe he's applied for some kind of job and they're checking up on him." She snorted. "Can you imagine him in any kind of civilian job?"  
"I can't even imagine a sentence that contains both him and 'civilian'," John said, wrinkling his nose. "What he did was inhumane."  
"And disgusting," she shivered. "Let's talk about something more pleasant. I hear Carter's stump is becoming infected."  
John snorted. "Don't believe everything you hear. I'm sure Dr. Sacker has it under control."  
"Right." She chuckled. "Are you coming with us on recon today? I always feel more safe when I know you're the one who'll patch me up if disaster strikes."  
John smiled. "Yeah, wouldn't want to miss it."

...

As John put away his rifle, he was smiling. To his and Mary's frustration, nothing special had happened during the recon. The young private who had been with them on the other hand, had been so nervous that the softest chirp had made him jump. Without thinking much, he put on his laptop, and he only remembered the previous email when he clicked his mailbox open.

***

To: Capt J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Doctor Stamford is an acquaintance of mine. I am investigating S. Moran in connection with a situation that has arisen around his new employer. Would you be willing to answer some questions or could you direct me to someone who would?

S. Holmes

***

Well, he and Mary had been right about that. Still, it was all too vague to know if he could tell that mysterious Holmes anything.

***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Mr. Holmes,

I think I can give you some answers, but I still need a little more information. After all we don't know a thing about each other and considering Colonel Moran's history, anyone could be asking this for any reason. I hope you understand.

John Watson

***  
He pressed 'send' and waited a little, hoping to be able to tell Mary a little more the next day.  
The answer came almost immediately.

***

To: Capt J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Examine my website, then contact me.  
http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk/

S. Holmes

***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

I'm not quite sure that is more reassuring. So you're a detective? Identifying an airline pilot by his left thumb? Not sure I believe you.  
Anyway, ask your questions and I'll see what I can do.

John Watson

***

To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

How well did you know Col. Moran prior to the incidents?

S. Holmes

***

John sighed. On the other hand, if the detective thought he had been a friend of Moran, he could imagine he wouldn't trust him right away either.

***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Personally I didn't know him very well. Had heard some people complain about him, mainly my female colleagues. But it seemed like he was doing his job just fine, until we discovered what was really happening.

John Watson

***

To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

What kind of complaints?

S. Holmes

***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

How much do you already know about what he did?

John Watson

***

To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Assume I know nothing. If your information is coloured by what you think I expect, it will be useless to me.

S. Holmes

***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Let's just say he never showed much respect to women. I'm not sure he realised the meaning of a 'no'. Not surprising if you look at what they found out about him afterwards. We still don't understand how he only got discharged instead of ending up in prison. Maybe you have an explanation?

John Watson

***

To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

How far did he go? Prior to the incidents that led to his dismissal?

S. Holmes

***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Nothing that got him discharged. Don't know what exactly he did, but there weren't any registered complaints before. Just everyone thinking he was a creep.  
I'd really like a proper explanation why you are asking all this though. If there's anything urgent, then ask it right away. It's getting late.

John Watson

***

To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran  
I am investigating his employer. I need to know which of Moran's actions are caused by his own drives and which are done according to orders.

S. Holmes.

***

John nodded at his screen. He would tell Mary this, but now he really needed some sleep. For a moment he hesitated if he should say something about leaving, but on the other hand, Sherlock hadn't been that polite either.

...

The next time John got to check his mails was almost 36 hours later. He had only had a few hours sleep in the morning, and the night before had brought him a lot of work and soldiers to patch up. He had almost forgotten about Sherlock, and couldn't help an annoyed grunt as he read his new message.

***

To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran  
Am I to take your lack of response as a sign that you are unwilling to help me?  
If not, please let me know if Col. Moran in your opinion ever took pleasure in causing pain and/or if he ever caused unnecessary pain or damage to an enemy.

S. Holmes

***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Had a hell of a day and night, so I couldn't answer any sooner.  
I think the reason why Moran got discharged made clear he took pleasure in it. I mean, I can't imagine it, but you need to be a sick bastard to even think of it.  
Don't know about the enemy. Like I told you, I never worked that closely with him.

John

***

To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Am I correct in assuming that you were one of the officers involved in uncovering Moran's crimes? I would like to know more.

S. Holmes

***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Yes, you are. Maybe it's easier if we switch to chat so you can ask your questions more quickly. I don't have that much time.

John

***

To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran  
That is a sensible suggestion. Do you have the time for it now or should we make an appointment?

S. Holmes

***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

I guess I have time now, if it doesn't take hours. 

John

**

To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

I suppose that depends on what you can tell me.  
http://us12.chatzy.com/55338402919586

S. Holmes.

***

HOLMES started the chat  
HOLMES sent out invitation(s)  
Watson joined the chat  
HOLMES: Tell me what happened when you discovered Moran's crimes.  
Watson: We were doing a patrol and one of the houses simply was too quiet, so we checked the basement. Moran was standing there, but there was no question of him just having arrived earlier. He was still holding the knife with which one of the victims had been cut and the fear in their eyes told a lot.  
HOLMES: How many victims were there? What was their age and gender? What condition were they in?  
Watson: There were 4 of them. 3 men and a woman, all between 25 and 40, although I don't know their exact ages. They were alive. Healing from older injuries. One had been shot in the leg and then been taken care of.  
HOLMES: Taken care of by Moran? Or the other captives?  
Watson: Moran. The others wouldn't have had the equipment since they were kept there.  
HOLMES: In your opinion, did he care for their wounds out of kindness or just to make his victims last longer?  
Watson: He was the one who inflicted them, so why would he suddenly show kindness?  
HOLMES: That is one of the things I am trying to find out. What had been done to them? You mentioned gunshot. Had they been hit? You said he was holding his knife when you found him. Had he used it on them before?  
Watson: Yes, we're pretty sure the gun wound in the victim's leg was also his work.  
HOLMES: Any broken bones? Areas of skin cut off?  
Watson: Strange you ask. His female victim missed rather large parts of skin and had scars of earlier defacements. No broken bones. Did he make more victims in the UK?  
Watson: Why didn't they lock him up in the first place?  
HOLMES: He is suspected of hurting people like this in the UK, yes. The reason he has not been locked up is complicated.  
Watson: I really don't understand. After doing all that he just gets the chance to start all over?  
HOLMES: It is a bit of a mystery. But it seems he is under the protection of someone very influential.  
Watson: And crazy, if they want to protect him.  
HOLMES: That part is quite certain. What I do not yet know is whether Moran was working for this person when he was in Afghanistan and how many of his current actions are the carrying out of orders and how much is his own sadistic tendencies. Were his victims sexually assaulted?  
Watson: The victims didn't want to talk about it when I examined them, but some traces seemed to point in that direction.  
HOLMES: Were there any other kinds of abuse, or important details we have not yet discussed?  
Watson: Let me think for a moment.  
Watson: Maybe Moran's reaction when we 'caught' him. We had seen what was happening when we entered so it wasn't like he could deny anything, but still it was striking how calmly he let us lead him away, like he was accepting his fate, whatever it was.  
HOLMES: That does indeed indicate that he knew at the time, that he would be protected from the consequences of his actions. Or it could be an indication of psychopathic traits. Did he seem proud of or indifferent to what he had done?  
Watson: Indifferent. Just walking along as if it were an everyday thing. It was disgusting.  
HOLMES: I see. This has been very helpful. I believe it may be what was needed to solve my case.  
Watson: Glad to help with anything against that bastard running around freely.  
HOLMES left the chat

***

John pulled up his eyebrows at the screen. Great, so he could provide information and Holmes would leave him without even a thank you. Who did he think he was? But on the other hand, he could at least hope that the detective would find enough evidence against Moran to have him locked up this time.  
He switched off his laptop and got up to find Mary.

Mary was fuming when he found her. "I am this close to knocking that idiot's head clean off his shoulders," she huffed, pacing the grounds outside her barracks.  
John frowned. "Who are you talking about?"  
"That nitwit, Private Jenkins. He nearly got himself shot to bits, just charging in as if it was some damn video game." She was trembling both from rage and shock as she slumped down on one of the wooden benches next to the building. "Luckily, the enemy was so startled we had time to cover him and get him back to safety, but two seconds more and he would have been perforated."  
"Ah. But everyone's okay?" John asked, friendly putting a hand on her shoulder as he sat down next to her.  
"No thanks to him." She leaned a little into the touch. "But the fight turned pretty ugly. We had to shoot three of them. They were hardly more than boys, and had gotten so worked up by his actions, that they refused to listen to reason."  
John sighed. "Sorry to hear that," he said. "Still, speaking of idiots you could as well have meant Sherlock Holmes."  
"Your new pen pal?" she teased, smiling a little.  
John snorted. "Even too impolite to thank me for information about the whole Moran situation. Who does he think he is anyway?"  
She laughed. "How did it go? 'Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective'? That's what his homepage said, wasn't it?"  
"Yeah, still don't know what to think about it," John said with a shrug. "His questions were... pretty specific. It was like I was there again, telling it all."  
She shuddered. "It was so horrible. I don't think I could bear reliving it like that. Even if it meant that bastard finally getting what he deserves."  
"I hope he will. Somehow Sherlock sounded rather reliable on that point. Still, that doesn't take away the fact that he seems a bit of a bastard himself."  
"They can't all be through and through good guys, John," she said as she looked him in the eyes, smiling. "You are pretty unique on that point."  
John chuckled. "Not sure everyone thinks so, but thanks."  
"They do, John," she said, suddenly serious. "I know you don't think so yourself, but you are truly a good man."  
John smiled, humbly looking down. "You're not so bad yourself."  
"Gee thanks, Casanova," she teased. "Just what a lady longs to hear."  
John grinned. "I wasn't trying to flirt with you. You know I'd be more effective at that. At least now you know that I mean what I'm saying."  
"Well, I guess that explains why you have never tried flirting with me. You honestly think that I am just 'not so bad'." She sighed dramatically.  
John playfully bumped her shoulder. "You know what I mean."  
She bumped back a little harder. "Yes. That I am your mate. That I am 'one of the guys' that you can drink with and talk about your conquests on three different continents."  
"It is nice that way, isn't it?" he asked, scanning her face as he absentmindedly touched the sore spot on his upper arm.  
"Oh yes, very," Mary said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "My lifelong ambition: to be the army buddy of a good looking decent bloke."  
John looked her in the eyes with a small frown. "I love having you as my friend, Mary. You know how it goes with those girls." He tilted his head a little as if he were indicating them. "It never lasts longer than a few days."  
She laughed. "Oh John, I'm not looking to have a relationship with you. I just mean that sometimes it would be nice to be seen as a woman and not just a soldier. To see that particular spark in your eyes that says 'I could do her'." She blushed a little. "Listen to me... A real feminist, eh?"  
John laughed too, but it was a little uncomfortable. "Are you saying we should... I mean... I mean, I know it gets lonely here, but still I think we shouldn't rush into anything. Our friendship is worth more than that."  
She shrugged. "Maybe you're right. But I'd rather ease the loneliness with a bloke I like and care about, than with some random soldier I pick up at the Pub or something."  
John licked his lips, shifting a little. "Wouldn't it be weird? We've known each other for quite a while."  
"Yes, you're probably right. It is a stupid idea. Forget I said anything."  
John put a hand on her arm. "That's not what I'm saying. It's just that we should think about this, before we do anything we might regret later."  
"If we think about it, you know it won't happen," she said, moving to get up. "I'm tired, John. I think I'll get some sleep while I can."  
John looked up at her, hesitating. "Yeah, alright."  
"See you around, John," she said as she left.


	2. Chapter 2

Judging from Moran's history with violence, it seems likely that the damage inflicted on the victim was done out of sadistic tendencies rather than for the purpose of extracting information. It would seem your state secrets may still be safe. Further investigation will of course be needed before I know for sure. SH

Thank you. I will take it from here. Don't even think about going undercover to find out more. MH

Sherlock laughed as he read the swift response from his brother. Then he turned to the mirror to examine himself. He doubted his brother would even recognise him if they were to pass in the street. His curls were messy and almost covering his eyes. He was in faded jeans, a football jersey and a battered leather jacket.  
He got out his other phone, the one he had acquired specifically for this job, and composed another text.

Is that job still available? TS

The answer came just as quickly.

Yes.

Sherlock almost laughed at the brevity of Moran's text. He pocketed the phone, checked his wallet that there was nothing in it that would reveal his true identity, and headed out the door. He walked to the tube station and got on the Circle Line, heading east.

He got off at Moorgate and quickly headed towards the pub which Moran was using for meetings this week.

The tall blond man in the back of the pub looked up as Sherlock entered. He looked a little annoyed and was softly shaking his head when Sherlock came his way.

"You're like a dog, Stevenson. You come when you're called but you don't seem to use a single brain cell. Did you even look if you were followed?" he said, giving the younger man an unimpressed look.

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course I did," he said in his best Cornish accent. "I'm not an idiot, am I?"

"We'll still have to see about that..." Moran said, his voice flat as he kept his eyes on Stevenson's face. "What made you change your mind?"

"I had another job, but the boss was a total wanker. Thought I'd rather be working for you."

Moran smirked. "Don't expect me to be any easier, Stevenson. I only expect the best of you." He trailed a finger over the scar on his left cheek. "And I don't hesitate to show when I am displeased."

"I am aware of that," Sherlock answered. "I'll take my chances."

Moran nodded slowly. "Good. Payment won't go through me. You know that I don't do the financial side. I prefer to be... creative."

"Yeah, so I've been told. As long as the pay is good, I don't care where it's coming from."

"Perfect." Moran sipped his drink. "I'll contact you as soon as something comes along that is suited to your skills."

"Yes, Sir." Sherlock nodded in greeting before turning and heading back outside.

Moran narrowed his eyes a little as he watched him go, then focused on his drink again.

...

Sherlock made his way home, fighting the urge to buy a pack of cigarettes on the way. The smell lingered on the jacket and made it so much harder to resist. When he arrived at his flat, he found that the door was already open. The landlady had a key of course, but he could not be sure it was her who had led someone in. He paused on the stairs, then hearing familiar movement, sighed deeply and walked up the last few steps.

"Checking up on me?" he asked, as he walked through the door.

Lestrade turned around and stared as he saw Sherlock's outfit. "With good reason, it seems."

Sherlock let out an annoyed groan as he passed the man, heading for the kitchen. "I'm working," he said. Then he glared at him. "And before you make me really angry: I'm working on a case."

Lestrade pulled up his eyebrows. "Dressed like that?"

"Yes. A suit would have looked rather out of place at the pub."

"You don't go to pubs when you're sober."

"Unless I have to for a case." Sherlock got out a bottle of water from the fridge.

"But you're not on a case." Lestrade stepped closer to look at Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock sighed and looked straight at him. "I'm doing Mycroft a favour."

"You know that's easy to check," Lestrade said, looking stern, but softening a little at the clarity he saw in Sherlock's gaze. "You do understand why we're worried, right? Seeing you dressed like that..."

"You don't trust me," Sherlock said flatly and took a sip of the water. "I know."

Lestrade sighed. "It's more a question of having to be certain that we can trust you. If I let you help in cases, it's my career that depends on it."

"I've told you, I'm clean. It's been three months now. When are you going to decide I can be trusted?"

"When you stop giving us the feeling that you're balancing on the edge, I guess," Lestrade said with an honest expression on his face. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, what kind of case are you on?"

"One of my brother's agents went and got himself killed. If you want to know any more you will have to ask Mycroft."

Lestrade nodded. "Be careful. Don't try to do anything on your own - and if the temptation is too much, don't go to pubs."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not all pubs are dealer havens, you know. I know what places to avoid."

"Alright. If there's anything I can help with, call me."

Sherlock nodded. "I will." He took another sip of water and then headed for his laptop, the other man's presence no longer a factor as his mind was getting to work.

...

It was two days before Sherlock got another text from Moran.

Be at the back of the Spanish Embassy, 9 pm. Got a job for you.

Sherlock smiled and answered:

-

Will be there. TS

-

He had four hours, so he did a little research on the embassy before changing into Thomas Stevenson, pocketing the gun he had 'borrowed' from one of Mycroft's men and heading out. As he walked up to the large dark building, he felt a thrill that he had been missing for much too long.

Moran stepped out of the shadows as Sherlock's footsteps sounded. "Stevenson."

Sherlock nodded. "Moran."

Moran gave him a calculating look. "That's Colonel or Sir, for you. Listen, it's a pretty important job, and the only reason I'm not doing it myself, is that I am needed elsewhere."

"Sure thing... Sir." Sherlock grinned. "What is it?"

"First of all, we need you to be discrete. Keep focused." He frowned at Sherlock's face for a moment to make sure he understood the importance of what was being said, before he continued. "You'll watch the main entrance. No-one is allowed to get in there. Do whatever you need to stop them. There are a few other ways to enter the building. Try to pay attention to those as well, as much as you can. But the main entrance is your priority, since there's the biggest chance someone would try to get in."

Sherlock looked at the large doors, then to each side, noticing the fire-escape and the service door at either end of the building. He nodded. "Got it, Sir." It was not what he had been hoping for, but at least it was a start. A possible way in.

Moran nodded. "Don't disappoint me." Then he waved to indicate Sherlock should take his position, and left.

Sherlock retreated into some convenient shadows and got his phone out pretending to be reading or writing something. He smiled wryly as he thought that smoking would have been an excellent excuse for hanging out in front of the building.

After one hour, Sherlock was getting extremely bored. A total of four people had passed the building in that time. A couple walking hand in hand. A woman in high heels and a mobile glued to the side of her face and a large man in a leather jacket. Sherlock had almost hoped that the latter was looking for trouble, so something, anything, would happen. But the man had simply given him a rather lewd look and then walked on.

Then, when he had been standing there for nearly two hours, things got worse. It started raining. Not just a drizzle but a right downpour. Within minutes he was soaked, the rain trickling down his neck and down his back in a very unpleasant manner.

When Moran finally arrived, the rainfall had lessened, and he pulled up an eyebrow at the sight of Sherlock. "So now you make a wet dog. Had any trouble?"

"Not really," Sherlock said, shaking the water from his hair. "Just some wisecracking prat."

Moran gave him a slow predatory grin. "You can go off now. Don't need you anymore."

Sherlock huffed. "I hope you have something a little more challenging for me next time."

Moran shrugged. "Can't really predict what it will be. This was a good task to start with anyway. At least you didn't bolt when the rain started."

"Oh yeah, like I'm going to be scared of a little water."

"Oh, you wouldn't be scared of it, but there would be enough people of your kind that would think that getting wet would be worse than the rage of their boss. Now off you go. Payment will follow."

Sherlock seethed at being dismissed this way, but he just drew up his shoulders and stalked down the street, wondering if he could get a cab to take him in his soaked condition.

…

No cabbie would take him and it took him almost an hour to get home. He took a long shower, trying to get warm, and then went to make a pot of tea. While it steeped, he turned on his laptop. There was a new email from Captain Watson.

To: Sherlock Holmes

Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Mr. Holmes,

Has my information been able to help you? Did you get any further in the case against Moran?

Please keep me updated.

John Watson

Sherlock sighed. This was just perfect. Now his source of information was making demands for attention. He really should have followed his instincts and told Mycroft to stuff it, when he had approached him about this case. But he had been desperate. Lestrade has refused to let him near anything remotely interesting since his latest relapse, and there had been no clients in almost two months. So here he was, with a new 'boss' who apparently took pleasure from making him stand in the rain for three hours, a brother trying to tell him how to do his job and now this: an overseas army doctor, demanding to be kept 'updated'. He almost just closed the laptop, but thought better of it.

***

To: Capt. J Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

No news.

S. Holmes

Then he settled back with a cup of tea, going over the data he had collected so far.

To: Sherlock Holmes

Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Do send me something when there is. I've given you my time, the least you can do is to return that favour.

John

He drank his second cup of tea while reading the message. He could not help but smile. There was something refreshing about this man. He turned off the laptop and, still smiling slightly, headed for bed.

...

It didn't take more than a few days before the next text from Sherlock's new employer arrived. He had called him into a private house this time, the streets around which were eerily quiet.

Moran was waiting at the back door of the house, a grim expression on his face. "It's a right mess we need to clean up. I wish he learned where his limits were. Just sometimes..." He sighed.

"He?" Sherlock asked, trying not to seem too eager. "Who are we talking about here?"

"The guy who did this." Moran opened the door and stepped inside

"Holy crap," Sherlock blurted out at the sight that met him. "One guy did this?" he asked as he looked at the bloody mess. "You're sure it wasn't more like a small gang and a pack of wild dogs?"

Moran shook his head. "Just him. The old man must have seriously pissed him off." He nodded at the dead man's head wounds, some of them clearly showing tooth marks, next to the bloody mess of empty eye sockets.

"Pissed him off? Who is this guy? The Hulk?"

Moran snorted. "Nothing like him. Let's get to work, there's enough to do here."

"So not big and green," Sherlock said as he tried to figure out where to start. "Got some bin bags? Gloves?" he asked.

"Done this before?" Moran smirked, getting the necessary supplies out of his bag.

"Something like it," Sherlock answered evasively. As he gathered the remains he tried to be subtle about studying them, masking his focus as mere morbid fascination.

Now and then Moran gave an approving nod at Sherlock's efficiency. "Good to see your stomach is strong enough for his work. Sometimes I really wish he cleaned up his own mess."

"Who is he? Someone working for you?"

Moran pulled up his eyebrows. "Do you really think a man who does this sort of thing is able to work for an employer?"

"S'pose not." Sherlock shrugged. "So who is he then?"

"None of your business. Your task is to do what I ask of you."

"Yes, Sir." Sherlock cursed under his breath as he got back to work.

When it was finished, Moran tapped Sherlock's shoulder. "You did a good job here. I'll make sure you'll get paid a bit more for this one."

"Thanks, Sir," Sherlock said, grinning. "I can't say it's been a pleasure."

Moran's smile pulled at the lines of his scar. "Better get used to it."

"So he's likely to get up to something like this again?"

"Who knows, with him," Moran shrugged.

"Well, I sure as hell don't," Sherlock snorted.

"Maybe that's for the best. Well, you can leave if you want. I'll get rid of those." Moran waved at the bin bags.

"No, it's fine," Sherlock said, almost too quickly. "I'll give you a hand. Where are we taking them?"

Moran frowned. "You don't get even more money doing this, if that's what you think."

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe I'm just trying to make a good impression."

Moran snorted and for a moment his gaze slid down Sherlock's body in a rather unnerving way. "Right. I guess you can help getting some of the bags to the car. I can handle it on my own from there."

Sherlock suppressed a shiver. "Sure," he said, and picked up most of the bags.

Moran smirked as he let Sherlock walk in front of him. "Just to the left here, it isn't far away. Can't have people see us carry the remains of their late neighbour for too long." Amusement was clear in his voice.

Sherlock chuckled. "No, that would be bad." As they reached the car he spoke again: "So, is this what I'll be doing? Standing watch and cleaning houses?"

Moran shrugged. "It could be anything, really. Jobs like this will probably happen more often, I already told you that. But you know how it goes. Some thefts, some drugs... Anything you wouldn't do for money?" The predatory smirk had returned.

"Nothing off the top of my head," Sherlock answered with a crooked grin.

Moran nodded. "Good to know. Just put the bags in here," he said as he had opened the car trunk.

Sherlock did as he was told and then nodded a goodbye before heading home.

On his way he considered his answer to Moran, trying to determine if there was indeed anything he wouldn't do, not for money, but for the case.

When he got home his mind was racing and he needed to clear it. As he sat down at his computer, he noticed the email he had received from Capt. Watson a few days ago. Might as well humour the man, he thought, and began typing a reply.

***

To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Col. S. Moran

You wondered earlier what kind of man would be willing to help out a sadist like Moran. I may have found the answer: a man who is, in his own way, even worse.  
Moran takes pleasure from causing pain. But he is systematic about it. Cautious to some extent. He went to some trouble patching up his victims, keeping them alive for his pleasure. He can control his urges.  
His benefactor seems to be a different type. From what I witnessed the man has no self-control. But that cannot be the whole truth, because in that case he would not be able to hold a position powerful enough to help Moran with the charges against him.  
Therefore he must be a person who sometimes loses control. And when he does, he is extremely dangerous. Moran working for such a man could potentially be even more dangerous than Moran acting out of his own interests.

S. Holmes

It took a couple of hours before Watson's answer came.

To: Sherlock Holmes

Re: re: Col. S. Moran

How do you suddenly know all this? Did something happen?

I don't know what to think about there being an even worse creep behind Moran.

Thanks for telling me what you found out though. I began to fear I'd never hear from you again. I really appreciate it.

John

Sherlock didn't see the mail before the next morning. He frowned. He had really told Capt. Watson a lot more than he had needed to, in order to fulfil his request to keep him updated regarding the case. He had surely not intended to write as much when he began his reply.

He smiled. He supposed that he had inadvertently used John as he would normally use the skull on his mantelpiece. By expressing his thoughts out loud, or in this case in writing, he had been able to view them from a new angle.

The ideas he had expressed to Capt. Watson had not been so fully formed before he began writing, so clearly it had worked. He supposed that at some point he should thank the man.


	3. Chapter 3

"I got another mail from Holmes," John told Mary over a bowl of foul tasting soup. "He thinks Moran is working for someone even worse."

"Worse than Moran?" she huffed. "I sincerely doubt that."

John shrugged. "I'm afraid it sounded like he might have a point."

"That is probably the most frightening thing I've ever heard," Mary said wryly, "and I've been in this hellhole for a year."

John sighed. "I know. I hope Sherlock will stop them both."

"He'd have to be a genius I'm afraid." She sighed. "Considering what Moran got away with here... I mean, he was caught in the act. And he still got off. Whoever that monster behind him is, he must be incredibly powerful."

John nodded and winced as he swallowed another spoonful of the soup, before pushing it away.

"Lost your appetite?" Mary asked, watching him with a hint of concern. "Or just your taste for the camp's excellent cuisine?"

"Bit of both." John sighed. "Do you think we could have done anything better, back when we found Moran? To prevent him from doing more harm?"

"You mean like shot him in the head and claimed it was self-defence?" She shrugged. "Probably. But could you have lived with that?"

John stared at his soup bowl for a while before he answered. "I don't know."

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow. "You could have killed him in cold blood? If you had known he'd do it again?"

"Would it have been wrong? Knowing how many he'd hurt, maybe kill?" John bit his lip and shook his head. "I just don't know."

Mary frowned. "It's a tough question. For his future victims' sake it would of course have been better to finish him off then and there. But you're a good man, as I've said before. It might have changed you." She reached over the table and took his hand. "And that would have been a great loss too."

John gently squeezed her hand. "Thank you, Mary. Sometimes I just wonder..."

"I know." She squeezed his hand back. "So do I. When I can bear to think about it."

John gently pulled her into a hug. "Let's just hope Holmes solves this. So we can stop worrying about it."

She nodded and then leaned her head on his shoulders. "Sounds like a plan."

John brushed his nose over her hair and stroked her back, before he began to realise that maybe the hug was lasting a little too long for two people who were just friends. Yet he quickly pushed the thought away. They just needed this, now. They had been in it together and no one else would understand what it had been like to find Moran with his victims. The fact that they could share this, was just another point that made their friendship so strong.

When they finally let go, John excused himself, saying he needed to get all the rest he could get. Once in his room, he checked his email again, as was becoming a habit since there was a chance of news from Sherlock.

***  
To: Capt. J. Watson

Re: re: Col. S. Moran

I've been meaning to thank you. Having to explain my thoughts to someone of lesser intellect seems to have served as an effective means of analysis and may have gotten me one step further in solving my case.

S. Holmes

***

John frowned at the email. What the hell? Even with the website and the earlier news indicating that Holmes might be who he said he was, it was still hard to trust such an arrogant wanker.

***

To: Sherlock Holmes

Re: re: Col. S Moran

Do you always thank people by calling them stupid?

What did you find out, then?

John Watson

***  
The reply came almost instantly.

***  
To: Capt. J. Watson

Re: re: Col. S. Moran

I do not believe I called you stupid.  
Thank you for your help, but I think I can manage it from here.

S. Holmes

***

John rolled his eyes. Great, there ended his last chance to be certain that someone was working on the Moran case. What if Holmes had been on Moran's side after all and John had only helped him to hide his true self? What if Holmes himself was Moran's boss, testing what he could get from John?

With a sigh, he shut down his computer and threw himself on the bed without even getting undressed. He was just tired. Doubts like that wouldn't help him any further. There was his own job to focus on. And yet the nagging feeling didn't stop.

...

A week had gone by since Sherlock Holmes' last dismissive email when suddenly he wrote again.

***

To: Capt. J. Watson

Re: re: Col. S. Moran

I seem to need your help once more. From your knowledge of Col. Moran, what would you say was his sexual orientation?

S. Holmes

***

John took in a sharp breath as he read it. That man had some nerve. It had been a long day and he really wasn't up for Holmes' nonsense, so he typed his answer using more force on the keys than was necessary.

***

To: Sherlock Holmes

Re: re: Col. S. Moran

I thought you could manage it? Why don't you ask someone who isn't an idiot?

***

Once again the reply was almost immediate.

***  
To: Capt. J. Watson

Re: re: Col. S. Moran

How? Almost everyone's an idiot.  
And as you may recall, I never called you an idiot. I merely stated that you were of lesser intellect than I am. As is everyone.  
If you will not help me, could you please direct me to someone who could?

S. Holmes

***

To: Sherlock Holmes

Re: re: Col. S. Moran

You really don't suffer from a low self-esteem, do you?

The thing is that I do want to help the case against Moran, even if you're being insufferable. Maybe it's easier to talk via Skype?

John

***

He could only hope that it would be easier to judge Sherlock's real character if they came face to face. On the other hand, he could hardly believe that Sherlock would insult him if he were the enemy, but then that could be a strategy... He sighed and waited for an answer.

There was a long pause before the next mail arrived.

***

To: Capt. J. Watson

Re: re: Col. S. Moran

Skype username: S.Holmes

***

John added the name to his Skype list, and soon the sign before Holmes' name went green and he could call him.

John couldn't help his curiosity as the small screen that would show the detective only displayed shadows before the image finally cleared up. He looked at the annoyed expression of the dark haired, thin man, and was almost immediately startled by the pale eyes that seemed to look straight into his.

"Hello," John said, suddenly feeling a little awkward.

"Hello," Sherlock answered irritably. "I hope you are right this will make things easier. So, what can you tell me about Moran's sexual orientation?"

John hesitated for a moment, but then got over being self-conscious. "I'm not quite sure. Like I told you, he kept three men and one woman in that basement. I didn't see any traces of sexual assault on one of the men, but of course that doesn't mean anything. They were the most obvious on another man though." He looked at Sherlock's face, scanning for a reaction behind the irritation.

"I see," Sherlock said and looked down to make a note. "In his interactions with other military personnel, did he ever show a preference for either gender?"

John frowned. "Well, that's where it gets strange. The complaints about him not being respectful only came from the women, as far as I know. I don't know what that means."

Sherlock made another note. "I have a few theories," he said, seemingly speaking more to himself.

"Well, why don't you try talking to a lesser mind again?" John said with a small smirk. "I'm interested to hear what you think."

"I think," Sherlock said, without commenting on the gibe, "that the object of Moran's sexual attentions is not to create interest or satisfaction in the target, but rather discomfort, pain and fear. The victims in the basement were at his mercy. But the soldiers in the camp were free to react with anger and reprisals. Statistically it is more likely that a woman would respond to his kind of advances with the desired fear and discomfort, which is why they were his chosen targets."

"Might be right," John nodded.

"Of course it might," Sherlock huffed and then tapped his lip with his fingers as he thought. "Do you know any female soldiers who have been the target of any of his attentions?"

"I do," John said hesitantly, "but I don't know if she will want to talk about it."

Sherlock sighed. "Can you ask her?" he said. "I would like to talk to her directly using Skype, so I can observe her."

John sighed. "I'll see what I can do, but if she says no, I will respect that. And I'm sure you understand that we can't really predict when we've got time, here."

"Naturally. Send me a mail when you have her answer and we will find the time." Sherlock seemed about to log off, but then hesitated. "Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions and listen to my theories," he said, a little stiffly.

"You're welcome. Good luck with the case," John said with a short nod.

"Thank you." There was another moment of hesitation, then: "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," John said before logging off. He stretched, thinking of how he would broach the subject to Mary. She wouldn't be happy with Sherlock's question.

...

"No fucking way, Watson. You can forget about that. You and your online buddy."

John wearily brushed a hand over his face. "But Mary, it will help him. If he gets insight in Moran's character, in what he did when he had to be more careful because there were soldiers around him..."

Mary sighed. "It's not that I don't want to help him. I just... You know how thinking about that creep makes me feel..."

He nodded and gave her a sympathetic look. "I told him that there might be a chance you'd say no. I'm not making you do it, not that I can, anyway. But reconsider. Both of us are lying awake at night thinking if we could have done more. Now we have the chance to help Holmes..."

"Oh John..." She groaned. "That's not fair... Fine." She sighed dramatically. "What should I do? Write him an email?"

"He said he prefers to Skype, so he can observe you and ask questions more quickly," John said carefully. "But if you want to mail, I guess that's fine," he added quickly.

She brightened up a bit. "No. I want to see who you've been spending your nights with."

John snorted. "You make it sound a lot more interesting than it was, Morstan."

"Yeah, I know." She pouted a little. "But a girl's allowed her kinky fantasies, right? Something to get me through the boring nights on the watch."

"Seriously," John laughed. "I doubt he's fantasy-proof though. The guy doesn't seem interested in anything but his case."

Mary smiled. "I can't wait to meet him. I'm off at 22.00. Think that'll be okay with him. Should be... six'ish back home, right?"

"And then you should get some sleep," John said, quasi-sternly. "You shouldn't do this when you're tired."

Mary pouted a little. "But then it'll be ages before I have the time. I'm going on a three day recon in the morning, remember?"

"Right," John frowned. "Then I'll see to it that it doesn't take too long. If you want me around for the chat, that is."

"If you don't mind," she said. "I don't really know the bloke, do I? And from what you've told me I suppose he won't balk at asking uncomfortable or inappropriate questions. I would like a mate at my side."

John nodded and patted her shoulder. "I'll be there."

…

"Ready?" John asked as they sat down in front of his laptop that evening.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Mary said nervously, straightening her hair a little.

John gave her an encouraging smile, before he called Sherlock and greeted him. "Mr. Holmes, this is Mary. Mary, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock nodded in greeting as Mary muttered a shy "Hello". Then he launched straight into the interview.

"Watson here tells me that you've had an... unpleasant experience with Colonel Moran."

Mary nodded. "It was about a year ago," she said, still hesitant. "When I had just arrived here. A couple of the girls had taken me to the Pub. It's this kind of bar in the nearby village..."

Sherlock nodded. "I know," he said. "Go on."

"Yes," Mary continued, somewhat flustered. "As I said, I had just arrived and didn't really know anybody yet. And then Colonel Moran comes up and offers to buy me a pint. He seemed very polite and he was... well, he's sort of a good looking chap, isn't he?" Sherlock didn't respond, which made her cringe.

John gently nodded at her, drawing her attention to the fact that he was still there to support her.

"It started out quite normal. We introduced ourselves, swapped a few combat stories and such. And then he asked me if I was seeing anyone. That's kind of normal for a guy looking to hook up I suppose, so I told him that I had been single for a couple of years. I told him I had been engaged and that was when he started getting... unpleasant. He began asking all sorts of questions. First it was general stuff about what kind of bloke Matt had been, but then he'd get more specific about what we'd do together. Y'know... in bed... I told him that was none of his business, but he kept pushing and insisting, suggesting things Matt might have done to me or had me do to him. Stuff neither of us would ever do. Even some things I'd never heard of or thought possible. I was so startled that at first I just sat there and let him talk. Then I sort of came to and tried to get up to leave. But he grabbed my wrist, real tight, and wouldn't let me go..." She bit her lip. "Then John here and a couple of the other guys came over and, they didn't say anything, just sort of looked at him, and he let go and laughed like it had been some kind of joke. He left soon after and then girls took me back to camp..."

John frowned and took her hand. "I didn't know he had gone that far. To involve Matt..." He knew how sensitive that subject was.

Mary sighed. "It's okay. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to talk about it even more."

"Was that it?" Sherlock interrupted. "Did he leave you alone after that?"

Mary hesitated then sighed. "No," she admitted, glancing apprehensively at John.

John's face went cloudy with anger. "What happened?"

She closed her eyes for a moment. "We were escorting a transport of civilian personnel together. About a month before he was discharged. Our jeep broke down, so the others went on without us. We were to wait by the car until help arrived. It was really hot and I... well, I fell asleep." She looked over at John. "When I woke up, he had unbuttoned my jacket and had his hand under my shirt... touching me..."

John gritted his teeth. "Bastard."

Mary nodded. "I got angry of course, and tried to push him away, but he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me really close to him. And then he... He tried to kiss me..."

"But you managed to keep him off," Sherlock added.

Mary, who had been speaking more to John had apparently almost forgotten he was part of the conversation, and she gave a small start. "Yes..." she muttered. "Yes. But how did you know?"

"Did he threaten you?" Sherlock asked, ignoring her question.

"Yes... Well, sort of... He moved his hand up to my throat and squeezed a little." She gulped. "But then we heard an engine approach and he let me go."

"God, Mary, if I had known, I wouldn't have hesitated a moment about-" John stopped and quickly glanced at Sherlock. "Jesus..."

Sherlock studied Mary for a moment longer. "Yes," he said finally. "It was clearly more about creating fear than any sexual motive."

Mary sniffed and looked away. "It was disgusting," she muttered.

John wrapped an arm around Mary's shoulders and looked at Sherlock, a little accusingly. "I hope you have enough information."

"Of course," Sherlock said, and then added: "Thank you for your time, Lieutenant Morstan. I know this wasn't easy." He nodded to them both and then logged off.

Mary leaned against John, trembling slightly. "I'm sorry," she muttered. "It's just... It was..." She sniffed again.

John hugged her close to him and stroked her hair. "I'm so sorry I made you go through this again," he said softly, his voice sounding pained.

"It's okay. Maybe even good... I've... I've never talked about it..." She leaned on him, resting her head on his shoulder.

John squeezed her a little. "I'm so sorry."

She pulled back so she could look him in the eyes and smiled a little. "Don't be. I'm just glad you were here. I don't think I could have done this alone. Without you."

John's anger with Moran was still too strong to allow him a smile, but he took one of Mary's hands in his again. "I wish I had killed him," he said quietly, looking away from her face. "I probably would have, if I had known what he did to you, what he tried to do."

She put a hand on his cheek, gently turning his head towards her. "Why do you think I never told you? You're a good man John. Too good to ruin your career or reputation over a prick like Moran."

"But..." John sighed, the rage in his expression giving way for despair.

"It's fine, really. It was awful, but no permanent damage was done. I'm stronger than that, John. You know me." She blinked and a single tear trickled down her cheek, but her smile widened. She stroked his cheek gently with her thumb.

He mirrored her movement, gently stroking the tear away and looking at her. "Mary..."

"Yes, John?" She smiled and leaned a little into his touch.

"I know how strong you are. And I admire you for it. And yet I don't feel like letting you go and be on your own tonight..." He licked his lips.

"I don't want to be alone tonight," she said. "Especially not tonight."

"Then stay, if you want. I don't want to be alone either."

"I'd like that."

John didn't move away from her. Again, he licked his lips nervously before he spoke hesitantly. "Mary, what you suggested before..."

She smiled, just a tiny bit mischievously. "Yes, John?"

"Oh, come on, don't make me say it," John said with a small chuckle, and he couldn't help blushing. "Do you... still think it's a good idea?"

"I think it's a very good idea," she said and giggled. "If you're man enough for it."

"Oh, already challenging me?" John grinned, but then his expression grew more tender again and he leaned in. "Sure?" he asked, his lips almost touching Mary's.

"Very sure," she said and closed the distance.

...

When John woke up, Mary was gone. Of course she had to leave early for the recon and his service only started a few hours later, but the longer he was awake, the worse he felt about her not being there and not waking him up before she left. They always made sure to have said goodbye before she went on recon – they never knew, it could be the last time. And just now, they hadn't. Not really. Maybe it had been a bad idea after all. What if their friendship couldn't take it? True, last night had been pretty amazing, but he couldn't shake off the feeling that it was partly wrong. He would have kissed Mary right when she was talking about the horror that had happened to her – god, if they hadn't found her with Moran in time it could have been so much worse – but the very thought had made him feel guilty at first. What if Mary felt obliged to give him this, only because he was good to her? But he knew her. It really wasn't like that. He wanted to comfort her and get comfort out of that himself, but she didn't have to do anything. Surely she knew that. She was strong, independent, she wouldn't do anything she didn't really want. But as the days went on without any chance to communicate with her, John gradually became less sure of that and the feeling of guilt grew. He never should have brought it up again. At first he had known it was a bad plan, and now he had just dived into it because he couldn't manage his anger with Moran. He shouldn't have let her talk to Sherlock in the first place. Once again, the detective had fallen silent, and John had no way of knowing if Mary's story had helped him any further. Maybe Holmes was just some pervert who wanted to hear stories like this. John hoped with all his heart that that wasn't true. He owed Mary a solution to the Moran case, and for that he needed Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat for a long time just watching the blank screen of his laptop. The interview had been very informative. Not just the information Lt. Morstan had given him, but the way she had reacted emotionally while she told her story. Moran was clearly extremely adept at intimidating and unsettling his targets, as the first encounter with Lt. Morstan showed.  
But the second incident indicated a different, maybe deeper aspect. He had been touching her while she slept, which meant that he was not directly focused on causing her fear or discomfort at the time. If Sherlock was right that the man was only erotically attracted to his own sex, while his attraction to women took on a more sadistic nature, then why touch a sleeping woman's breasts?  
It must have been the act of doing it, rather than the actual sensation that had turned him on. Doing it against her will and without her knowledge. Moran wanted his victims helpless and at his mercy. Fear was one aspect, but unconsciousness apparently also held its appeal. Was the risk of her waking an increasing factor or just an, in that situation, unavoidable circumstance?  
Sherlock did not doubt that if they had not been interrupted Moran would have molested Morstan through use of force. But would he have done so too had she been truly unconscious? Drugged, for example? How important were pain and terror to Moran in comparison to being in power and taking what he wanted?  
He needed more data to understand him better. Though Mycroft's case was basically solved, Sherlock still felt he needed more pieces to the puzzle that was Moran and his mysterious, murderous employer. Not for any specific purpose right now, but because he felt beyond a doubt, that he would soon find himself up against them, on behalf of his brother, Scotland Yard or maybe even himself. And in such a confrontation, knowledge would be his only advantage.  
His mind kept turning things over and over and it was working itself into a rut. He needed more data. He needed to see Moran again. To test him and read him based on the new information.  
He leaned back and closed his eyes with a sigh. Then he chuckled. On top of everything else, the interview had gained him another advantage. Considering that Captain Watson was, right now, engaged in intercourse with Lt. Morstan, and that this was, at least partly, a result of the interview, Watson might just be more favourably inclined towards Sherlock in the future, should he need more information. And he really should remember to keep the man updated. It kept him happy and it was such an effective way of sorting his own thoughts.  
He got to his feet and went to get a drink of water. There was no point speculating any more at the moment. There was nothing for it but to wait until he heard from Moran.  
...  
The next day, Moran summoned Thomas Stevenson for a new job. They met in a deserted street, where Moran was leaning impatiently against his car, even though Sherlock arrived at the appointed time.  
"Finally," Moran greeted him.  
Sherlock quickly turned a frown into a scowl. "What are you on about?" he grumbled. "I'm not late."  
"But you could have been here sooner. After all I was here sooner." Moran raised an eyebrow.  
"So? Maybe I had better things to do than hang around waiting for you."  
"I decide what the right time to arrive is, Stevenson. I decide whether you have better things to do or not. Don't forget that." Moran pushed himself off the car and motioned Sherlock to take the passenger seat.  
"Yes, Sir." Sherlock grinned as he got in the car. He had definitely caught Moran's attention. He doubted he was like this with all his workforce. And Sherlock had been getting quite a lot of work.  
"So, Boss," he said after a moment. "What's the job this time? More cleaning?"  
Moran shook his head. "We're gonna pick something up. It'll be too heavy to carry on my own and no one's there at the... storehouse."  
"And where is that... storehouse?" Sherlock asked, mimicking his inflection.  
"Sheffield," Moran said. "We'll be on our way for a few hours."  
"And I'm just along to lift?" Sherlock asked, watching Moran out of the corner of his eye.  
Moran shrugged. "And for company, I guess. I'm not that fond of being alone in a car for so long."  
"I thought so," Sherlock muttered smugly, just loud enough for Moran to hear.  
Moran raised an eyebrow at him, before focusing on the road again. "You're quite fond of yourself, aren't you?"  
Sherlock laughed at this. "I suppose I am. But why shouldn't I be?" He grinned at Moran. "What's not to like?"  
The other man snorted but didn't answer.  
Sherlock sat in silence, looking out the window. Then he glanced at Moran. "What is it we're going to pick up?" he asked.  
"A package," Moran shrugged.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "For your boss?"  
"Mainly for me."  
Sherlock's interest was immediately piqued. "Sounds interesting," he said, in a slightly bored tone as if he was just making conversation.  
"Not really," Moran said, sounding equally bored. "You know I'm not too interested in money, but I still need to make a living."  
"Yeah? How long have you been working for this bloke?"  
"A while. He pays well enough, that's not it. But you know that sometimes he gets weird." Moran frowned for a moment, as if he was angry with himself for telling too much.  
Sherlock immediately changed course. "What did you do before? If you don't mind me asking."  
"Maybe I do mind you asking," Moran answered.  
"Never mind then," Sherlock said quickly. "Just trying to pass the time."  
"It's just a stupid question," Moran said. "You know I'm a colonel. How many options are there?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "I just thought you might have some good war stories."  
"I'm not exactly a storyteller."  
"Fine. Forget I asked." Sherlock turned to look out the window again.  
"Are you really that interested in me?" Moran asked airily after a while.  
"I have an inquisitive nature," Sherlock answered evasively, sounding just a little peeved.  
Moran smirked. "Of course."  
"But it's fine. You don't want to talk about it. Never mind." Sherlock kept his head turned away.  
"Why don't we talk about you? What did you do before?"  
"Before working for you? Lots of different stuff. Worked, drifted. Done a little time. Nothing really exciting."  
"What did you do your time for?" Moran asked.  
Sherlock made himself blush. "Nothing impressive," he muttered.  
"Come on, tell me," Moran said, smiling a little.   
"Why should I? You're not telling me anything." Sherlock glanced at him, a slight hint of mischief in his eyes.  
"But I'm your boss," Moran grinned. "I need to know what kind of criminal I'm working with, don't I?"  
"Well, I can promise you it's not any kind of criminal activity that would be relevant while working for you. At least I seriously doubt it."  
"But I'm curious," Moran said with an attempt to an amiable smile that made his scar wrinkle. "There's no need to be embarrassed, we all did silly things."   
"Well, I'm curious too. And I asked first," Sherlock countered.  
"Alright then," Moran sighed. "A story for a story. I've been in Afghanistan."  
Sherlock nodded. "I've been an addict," he said.  
"Interesting," Moran smirked. "I'd better keep an eye on you when we move the package, then."  
Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, don't worry about me. I'm long past all that." He glanced at Moran. "Your turn."  
The colonel thought for a while. "I was once attacked by a tiger," he said then.  
Sherlock snorted. "Seriously? Is that how you got the...?" He gestured to his own face, indicating Moran's scar.  
"Oh, no. That was just in a fight. Nothing spectacular actually, just a knife that came a little too close to be fun. But that's two facts from me now. You owe me."  
"Right..." Sherlock thought for a moment. "I was in a gang once. Briefly."  
"Didn't work well with the others?" Moran asked.  
Sherlock shrugged. "I was... friends with the leader... And then I wasn't. It was safer for all concerned if I got the hell out of there." He chuckled. "Which led to me spending two years in Germany."  
Moran chuckled. "Explains why we didn't hear of you before, while the boss knows almost everyone in the business.”  
"I've been keeping a low profile since I got back. Didn't want my old 'friends' to hear about me, did I? I even had a proper job for almost a year."  
"Must have been boring for you," Moran commented.  
"It was hell. Your turn."  
"I've been a chauffeur for a while," Moran said, tapping the wheel. "Though that hardly qualified as a 'normal' job."  
They exchanged a couple of random facts more, before they both fell silent again, Sherlock trying to piece the new snippets of information into the puzzle.  
As they arrived in Sheffield, Moran once again parked the car in a deserted street. "We'd better not be seen too close to our destination."  
Sherlock nodded as he got out of the car. "Then I hope whatever we're picking up isn't too heavy, large or conspicuous."  
"Told you it was heavy," Moran said. "But normally it will be packed so that we don't attract too much attention."  
"Of course." Sherlock stretched and groaned. "I hate long drives."  
"Shall I leave you here then, when we're finished?" Moran grinned.  
"I think I could find my way home. Unless you really need the company." Sherlock winked. "Then I suppose I have to deal with it. It is my job after all, right?"  
Moran chuckled. "Just come with me. Otherwise you're just postponing and you'd still need a ride back."   
They were approaching a large building that, indeed, looked like a storehouse. As soon as they were inside, Moran led Sherlock up the stairs to another floor.  
Sherlock followed, discretely studying the building and storing away all the details for later perusal. "Yes, Boss," he said with a crooked grin.  
After they had walked for a while, Moran said: "Ah. This is our parcel". He pointed at a very long bar, wrapped in brown paper. "Won't be fun to manoeuvre it down the stairs, I can tell you that. Once outdoors, we'll just look like two workmen carrying a metal beam. Nothing suspicious."  
"What the hell is this?" Sherlock asked taking hold of one end and lifting it slightly to test the weight.  
"A metal beam," Moran smiled. "The question rather is what's inside it."  
"Inside a metal beam?" Sherlock frowned.  
"It's safe," Moran shrugged, lifting his end and nodding at Sherlock to make him start walking.  
"And heavy as fuck," Sherlock groaned as he slowly headed for the stairs. It took a lot of manoeuvring and cursing, but finally they got the thing to street level. "How the hell are we going to fit this in the car?" he asked.  
"I can put the back seats down," Moran answered. "We can't open it here, so it'll have to fit."  
Sherlock laughed. "You do realise you're making me terribly curious about what's inside this thing, don't you?"  
"What a shame," Moran smirked.  
"You're no fun," Sherlock complained as they rounded the corner and reached the car.  
"I'm not supposed to be fun." Moran put down his side of the bar and opened the car, pushed down the seats and opened the trunk. Then he lifted the parcel inside and stepped aside so Sherlock could push it further in.  
"I guess not," Sherlock said, grunting slightly as he shoved the heavy beam in.  
Moran patted Sherlock's shoulder as the bar was in place. "Want to go for a drink before we head back home?"  
"You're buying?"  
"Yes, only this once," Moran chuckled.  
"Lucky me." Sherlock pushed a couple of stray and rather sweaty curls away from his forehead and grinned.  
"So," Moran said as they sat down with a pint each. "What are you going to do tonight at home?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "I have no immediate plans. Maybe watch some telly. Or go to the pub and see if there's a game on."  
"You live alone, then? No girlfriend?"  
"Girlfriend?" Sherlock snorted. "No."  
Moran's smile became more predatory. "Boyfriend, then?"  
"I don't have room in my life for stuff like that," Sherlock answered evasively, forcing himself not to squirm under the scrutiny.  
"All alone," Moran said almost dreamily, his eyes lingering on Sherlock's face. "It's hard to understand..."  
"Yeah?" Sherlock cocked his head a little. "Why is that?"  
"Oh, you know well enough what I mean." Moran smiled, then after a moment seemed to come back to himself. "Of course, you could spend the evening with me."  
"I suppose I could," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Did you have anything particular in mind?"  
Moran shrugged. "We've got the whole ride to think of something."  
Sherlock nodded. "You're on," he said. "As long as it involves some form of food. I'll be starving by the time we get back."  
Moran smirked. "I'm sure we can think of something... But of course we can just order a small bite here. We've got all night."  
Sherlock nodded and reached for a menu. "Still your treat?" he asked.  
"Sure... As long as you repay me later." Moran grinned wolfishly.  
Sherlock did not comment, but ordered the Irish stew.  
…  
On the drive back, he was mostly silent, wondering if he might possibly be getting in over his head. He kept glancing at Moran, unable to deduce what 'spending a night' with him might include.  
Now and then, Moran smirked at him, looking as if he knew something Sherlock didn't.  
"Straight to my flat?" he asked as they drove back into London.  
Sherlock suppressed a shudder. "Sure. It's probably better than my place, which is quite a dump."  
Moran nodded slowly. "We'll pick up some food on the way, if you want."  
Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe just some crisps." He hesitated. "And some cigarettes." He had promised himself and his landlady that he had quit for good. But he had a feeling that tonight he'd need the nicotine to clear his mind.  
"Good idea," Moran nodded. They stopped at a night shop, then drove a little further until they reached the garage near Moran's flat. "You carry those," he said, waving at the bags of crisps and the cigarettes. "The parcel can stay here. The garage is locked and guarded, so I can take care of it tomorrow."  
Sherlock nodded. "Will you need my help with the delivery?" he asked.  
"Don't think so," Moran shrugged. "Come." He went before him, pushed a button to lock the garage behind him as soon as Sherlock had come out too, and then entered the apartment building.  
Sherlock glanced around, doing his best not to seem nervous. On the other hand, appearing a little intimidated might actually be an advantage.  
"Want a drink?" Moran asked as they entered the flat.  
"Sure," Sherlock said, glancing around. The place was not what he had expected. The man had good taste and the almost military tidiness did indeed make Sherlock's own flat seem like a dump by comparison.  
"Make yourself comfortable," Moran said, crouching down to get an unmarked bottle with a brown liquid from the cupboard, along with two glasses.  
Sherlock bypassed the two comfortable chairs and settled on one end of the sofa. "Nice place you've got," he said.  
"Thanks. I'm quite fond of it. Would be a shame to have to leave it, but of course I always have to be prepared for that," Moran shrugged, putting down the glasses on the low wooden table in front of the sofa, before sitting down next to Sherlock and filling both glasses to the rim.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Thirsty?" he asked, with a hint of mirth.  
Moran smirked. "Well, I suppose we'll sit here for a while and I hate filling the glasses every minute. Besides, this is a bit strong to drink against thirst." He picked up his glass and handed the other to Sherlock.  
Sherlock accepted the glass with a smile. He clinked it against Moran's before taking a sip, making a not so subtle face. "Strong indeed."  
Moran smirked and took a good sip himself before he put it down again. "I like it that way."  
Sherlock sipped again before he put the glass down. "Can I smoke in here or should I go outside? Or to the window?"  
"I don't really mind, but why don't you go to the balcony? It's a nice evening for once. I'd also like some air after a day in the car..." There was an unsettling glimmer in Moran's eyes.  
Sherlock nodded and got to his feet. He picked up the pack of cigarettes he had just bought and headed for the door Moran had indicated. Once outside he focused on opening the package, waiting for Moran to join him. Then he felt his pockets and let out a frustrated huff. "I seem to have left my lighter at home."  
"No problem. I've got plenty of lighters here. A remainder from a rather... heated job." Moran smirked and came closer to light Sherlock's cigarette for him.  
Sherlock leaned in, focusing on the flame. Then he inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and holding in the smoke. When he finally let it out it sounded almost like a sigh.  
Moran kept standing close, seemingly completely focused on Sherlock's lips and fingers as the detective smoked. "I didn't see you smoke before," he said, sounding far away. "I must say it's a nice sight."  
"I've been trying to quit," Sherlock said honestly. He kept his eyes closed as he began to feel the familiar light-headedness that always came with the first drag after a long break. Then he opened his eyes and looked straight at Moran. "But tonight I felt like indulging."  
Moran smiled. "There's more that's been a while, then." He took the pack from Sherlock's hand and put it on the low wall.  
Sherlock nodded, and swallowed hard. "I... I guess," he said, fighting the urge to take a step back. He brought the cigarette back to his lips, almost as a small barrier between them.  
Moran lightly laid a hand on Sherlock's hip and leaned a little closer despite the cigarette. Suddenly the predatory look had gone. "You look nervous," he said softly, only the slightest hint of a threat left in his voice.  
Sherlock gasped a little and the smoke in his lungs made him cough. "Yes..." he gasped. "I mean... no..."  
Moran smiled. "There's really no reason. I can be gentle..."  
"I... Sure..." Sherlock lowered the cigarette and tried to appear more confident than he felt. "Who says I want gentle?"  
Moran grinned. "That's why I said 'can' and not 'will'." He leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock's.  
Sherlock tensed for a moment, not just as part of his strategy to keep Moran interested, but because it had, in fact, been a very very long time since he had been kissed. He had to fight down the urge to bolt, by focusing completely on the Thomas Stevenson persona. He had been fishing for this all day. He had flirted with Moran and even come right out and challenged him. He would not run. He wanted this.  
It worked. Sherlock found himself returning the kiss. Hesitant at first, then eagerly, the rest of his cigarette falling, forgotten from his fingers as he brought his hands up to cup Moran's cheeks and pull him even closer.  
Moran lowered his hands to cup Sherlock's arse, parting Sherlock's lips with his tongue to claim his mouth roughly. Sherlock surrendered, letting Moran take control of the kiss, leaning in to press their bodies together. Moran rutted against him, then pushed Sherlock a little back and efficiently opened the younger man's tight trousers.  
Sherlock gasped in surprise at the abruptness, but then pulled himself together enough to get started on Moran's jeans, his fingers fumbling with the buttons. He bucked against Sherlock's fingers, but he didn't voice his impatience. He kissed Sherlock again and growled lowly.  
Finally Sherlock got all the buttons opened. Then he hesitated, not sure how much initiative Moran would want him to take. The man nodded and pushed down on Sherlock's shoulder. He obediently got on his knees and with a minimum of fumbling got Moran's cock free of his jeans and boxer shorts. He wrapped his long fingers around it and gave it a few hesitant strokes. Then he glanced up at Moran. "Condom?" he asked.  
Moran smirked and reached in one of the pockets of his jeans before handing Sherlock what he asked for.  
Sherlock smiled up at him as he opened the foil and deftly rolled the condom on. Then he leaned in and gave a few teasing licks. It had been ages since he had given head, but he used to be quite adept at it, as he was with everything he had ever bothered taking the time to master.  
But almost immediately, it was clear that Moran wasn't waiting for tender touches or technique. He tangled a hand in Sherlock's hair and pulled, making Sherlock open his mouth further so he could thrust into it, supporting himself with his other hand against the wall. Sherlock closed his eyes and just focused on getting the angle right, so he could take the deep thrusts, almost without gagging. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked, as he let Moran fuck his mouth. He put both hands on Moran's hips, holding on tight to brace himself.  
After a while, Moran's thrusts became fiercer and he groaned as he tugged Sherlock's hair even harder and more painful. Then he stilled and came, forcefully keeping Sherlock still as well and not letting him go before his own breathing was almost even again.  
Sherlock got to his feet, feeling a little dazed and sore. He reached for his glass and took a large sip, then looked around for his cigarettes.  
"Don't you want to do anything about that?" Moran asked with a wave to Sherlock's crotch as he saw him look around. "I don't mind watching..."  
Sherlock tensed. His loose shirt only partly obscured the fact that he was nowhere near fully hard. With a conscious effort he willed his body to respond in a way that would seem more appropriate to the situation and then grinned at Moran. "You're not going to give me a hand?" he asked cheekily, already suspecting the answer.  
"No. I'll just enjoy the view. We can go indoors if it's too cold for you..."  
Sherlock nodded and considered for a moment. "Here is fine," he said and put his glass down. Moran clearly wanted a show, and being exposed out here in the open would definitely not decrease the effect. So he got his clothes out of the way, just enough to get his own cock out and, closing his eyes and steadying himself with one hand on the wall, he began stroking himself, keenly aware of Moran's scrutiny.  
Moran chuckled lowly and sat down on the low wall for a better view. "Tell me what you are thinking of," he commanded.  
"Right now?" Sherlock said, moving his hand lazily. "You. How you felt in my mouth." It was all he could do to keep his erection up. The whole situation, but especially Moran's presence and his demeanour was just about the most off-putting thing he had ever experienced. If he was going to get through this he had to find a way of distracting himself.  
Moran grinned. "I saw how you looked at me. You've wanted this all day, didn't you? Is it a kink of yours, having sex with your boss?"  
"Seen right through me," Sherlock muttered, moving his hand a bit faster, trying to signal that the conversation was getting him more aroused. "I like strong men with power. Men not afraid of taking what they want. Especially when what they want is me."  
Moran definitely wasn't afraid of taking what he wanted. His abuse of his captives had shown that beyond a doubt. And his treatment of Lieutenant Morstan. Not only had he had no qualms with touching her while she slept, but he had also tried forcing himself on her.  
"Hmm," Moran smiled, reaching for his own cock. "What did you imagine I would do to you?"  
"I thought of the way you looked at me. At my body. Your hands on me. Touching me," Sherlock murmured.  
The way he had touched Lieutenant Morstan. But touching was not enough for Moran. He wanted to bruise. And to cut. He wanted the object of his lust to suffer. But what kind of satisfaction did it give him? Was it a sexually driven kind of sadism or did it run deeper?  
"Tell me where I touched you," Moran said, stroking himself now at the same pace as Sherlock was doing.  
"I imagined your hand on my chest," Sherlock answered, trying desperately to dispel any such image from his mind. "And then moving up, resting loosely on my throat. Your other hand between my legs."  
He had threatened Morstan with strangulation. Or at least implied it. But was it just a way of forcing her or did he get off on the act itself?  
"Interesting," Moran said, his voice sounding more thoughtful than aroused. "Go on."  
Sherlock's mind searched frantically for what more to say. "I imagined that you would want to fuck me. To have that arse you've been staring at since my first job."  
How important was intercourse actually for Moran? Would he even care for it if it wasn't forced? Sherlock thought back to how distraught Morstan had been remembering the incident with the car. If Watson had not been there to comfort her, Sherlock doubted he would have been able to get the story from her. Especially not through Skype. But Watson had not just been a support for Morstan. He had helped Sherlock too, getting the information he needed.  
"Your fault for having an arse like that. But we'll keep that for another time..." Moran said, stroking himself faster. "Look at you, your eyes going all glassy at the thought alone..."  
"Something to look forward to." Sherlock smirked, reminding himself to keep prepared for such an eventuality. He doubted very much Moran would bother with loosening him up, and it had been quite a while since he had last had intercourse. But still, he doubted any amount of preparation would prevent it from being a, to some extent at least, rather painful experience.  
He almost panicked. This was definitely not the right line of thought. Desperately he searched for another image and settled on Watson again. Watson supporting Morstan both with words and touches, but most of all with his very nature. No wonder the man was an army doctor with such a unique mix or strength and empathy.  
Sherlock groaned in relief. His efforts were finally paying off and he could feel the clenching of muscles that signalled imminent orgasm.  
"Come on. Come on, don't keep me waiting," Moran moaned as he heard Sherlock's groan and continued his own twisting strokes.  
With a very vivid picture of Captain John Watson leaning closer to his friend to comfort her, radiating only tenderness and concern even though Sherlock could sense the sexual tension between the two, even through his screen, Sherlock finally came, letting out a strangled cry as he spilled over his own hand, trying to catch it all.  
Moran worked himself for a little longer, before he groaned and came.  
Sherlock held out his sticky hand in front of him. "Mind if I use the bathroom?" he asked, with a slightly sheepish grin.  
Moran sighed, then chuckled. "Second door to the right," he said. "Bring me a cloth."  
Sherlock nodded and hurried off. That had, all in all, been a rather bizarre experience. But quite informative too. He had been able to gauge some of Moran's responses and made the, slightly unsettling, discovery that the man had a surprisingly short recovery time, which did not bode well for a second encounter. As he washed his hands Sherlock wondered if the case was really worth such sacrifices.  
Only time would tell, he thought as he prepared a wet cloth and then brought it out to the balcony. He handed it to his 'boss' and then spotted the cigarettes on the wall. With a relieved sigh he picked up the pack and opened it.  
Moran cleaned himself up and pulled his jeans back in place, then took a cigarette for himself as well. "You can go. Or sleep on the sofa, I don't care," he said.  
Sherlock managed to turn his relieved smile into a small pout, as he nodded and got out his phone to call for a cab. While he waited for his call to be answered he held the cigarette to his lips and looked at Moran, expectantly.  
Moran threw him the lighter when he had lit his own cigarette. "See you on the next job, then," he said.  
Sherlock nodded, lit his cigarette and headed for the door as he arranged for a cab to pick him up soon.  
…  
When he got home, Sherlock was tempted to go straight to bed. But the smell of cigarettes, alcohol and... Moran still hung about him. He doubted anyone else would have noticed the subtle hints of the other man's deodorant and sweat, but to Sherlock it was painfully evident. So he shrugged off Thomas' clothes, stored them in the usual bag in the bottom of the wardrobe, making a mental note to have them cleaned, and headed for the bathroom.  
After an extended shower, he put on his pyjamas and robe and settled on the sofa to think. The day's work had definitely confirmed many of his assumptions about Moran's psychology and tendencies, as well as cleared up some of his doubts. But it had not been easy. He just hoped that it, in the long run, would be worth it, and that whatever Moran had in store for him the next time they met, was something he could handle. His disguise had nearly dropped tonight, and he would have to be more careful in the future.  
At some point, not long before sunrise, he drifted off.  
...  
Little more than two hours later, the doorbell rang repeatedly. Sherlock groaned and rolled over on his side pulling a cushion over his head. The noise didn't stop, and was now alternated with loud knocking on the door.  
"Go away," he muttered.  
Eventually the ringing stopped and was replaced by footsteps on the stairs to Sherlock's flat.  
Sherlock was still trying to remember if he had locked the door when he heard it creak open. "Piss off, Mycroft," he muttered, pressing the cushion to his ear.  
"Sherlock," Mycroft said solemnly.  
Sherlock just grunted in response. He did not want to deal with his brother just now. He was too tired and already a little on edge.  
Mycroft frowned down at him. "How are you, brother dear?"  
"Tired. Got in late. As you bloody well know," he sneered.  
"It actually is why I'm here," Mycroft answered. "You have been seen in the company of Colonel Sebastian Moran, and it's not the first time."  
"I'm investigating him." Sherlock sat up with an exasperated groan. "Remember the case? You gave it to me."  
"And then I told you to stay away from him," Mycroft replied.  
"And you actually expected me to comply?" Sherlock looked up at his brother with a slightly bemused grin.  
"There is a difference between keeping an eye on the man and befriending him," Mycroft said with a snort.  
"I'm getting a profile on him. Figuring out how he works." Sherlock got to his feet and turned towards the kitchen. "Easiest way is to get close to him."  
"Very close, apparently," Mycroft said coldly. "The CCTV images of his balcony last night were disturbing to say the least."  
"Oh..." Sherlock paused for a moment. Then he walked to the kitchen. "Then maybe you shouldn't have watched."  
Mycroft almost trembled with the effort to stay calm. "What the hell were you doing there, Sherlock? And no, don't give me the obvious answer. You know we watch him, we can corner him, but then my little brother decides to come in and become his lover? Was it reading about his drug circuit that brought you there?"  
Sherlock whirled on him, his eyes narrowing with rage as he approached slowly. "I... am... clean," he snarled and then held out his arm. "Want to do a blood test? Again?"  
"I will send someone in later," Mycroft nodded. "I am worried about you, Sherlock. That man is dangerous. What you were doing there..."  
Sherlock glared at him as he withdrew his arm. "Sucking his cock, obviously," he spat.  
"But why? He's got torture crimes behind his name, for god's sake. Be rational."  
"I am being rational. I'm testing him, seeing how he reacts to certain stimuli. What motivates him." Sherlock huffed and slumped down on the sofa. "Being available to him is the best protection I can have. Resisting his advances, however, could have made me a target for his... other needs."  
Mycroft shook his head. "Report what you have and stay away from him. I know your love for cases, Sherlock, but this is simply playing with your life again. I cannot allow you to continue."  
"Don't even start that, Mycroft. There's nothing you can do to stop me and you know it."  
"Wrong." Mycroft sighed. "It's perfectly possible. Neither of us just wants it to be necessary."  
Sherlock sighed. "Just back off, Mycroft. I know what I'm doing."  
"I will increase your security level," Mycroft said, shaking his head. "Let the case go. It will destroy you." He turned and left.  
Sherlock huffed and lay down again. But he was unable to go back to sleep. So instead he reached for his laptop and checked his email. Nothing interesting. He glanced at the last email from Captain Watson. The man had been a great source of information, but Sherlock doubted he would be needing him anymore.  
Sherlock found himself almost regretting this, which was, of course, silly. Watson had been very helpful, but what was the use of him, now that he had no more data to add? Though that wasn't actually the only help he had been providing. Sherlock had done some of his best deductions on this case while trying to explain his thoughts in a way that an ordinary man like Watson could understand. Perhaps he could use that again at some point. It might actually be an advantage to keep in touch with this man.  
Sherlock thought for a while about how such a change in their relationship might be facilitated. Then it struck him: Watson seemed quite hung up on politeness.  
***  
To: Capt. J. Watson  
Subject: Lt. Morstan

I would like to thank you for your help with my investigation.  
Please convey my gratitude to Lt. Morstan as well. I hope recounting her experiences was not too trying for her. But I do believe that she had all the support she could wish for in you. You are a good man and, as far as I can tell, a good friend.

S. Holmes  
***  
The moment he had hit 'send' he regretted it. Surely Watson would see through the insincerity of his words. Well, there was nothing to be done about that now. He got up and began making breakfast. When Sherlock had finished eating, John had already sent an answer.  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: Lt. Morstan

I hope your sudden strike of politeness means you got further in the case against Moran. You're welcome, and if there's anything else I can do, just say so. Within the range of what is possible, of course.  
Anyway, I'll tell Mary you thanked her once she gets back from recon. She'll appreciate it.

John  
***  
Sherlock smiled to himself as he read. So he had been right about how Watson had been consoling his friend, Mary. And he actually offered his help. He supposed he’d better cultivate the man's goodwill.  
***  
To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

I have been able to test some of my theories regarding Moran's motivations and so far it seems that my initial assumptions were correct. He is attracted to pain and fear, but it is not so overshadowing that he will not also seek out simple sexual gratification. He does however not display any kind of affection or sense of obligation to his sexual partners.  
I will be looking further into whether his sadistic tendencies is fuelled by other and perhaps less primal instincts.

S. Holmes


	5. Chapter 5

John frowned as he reread Sherlock's last mail. He had been glad that Sherlock made progress, but then it had dawned on him what his mail actually meant. How could he suddenly know these things about Moran's sexual behaviour? Working alone as a consulting detective, Holmes' methods would probably not be the most customary.  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

How do you know this? It sounds a little like you're getting yourself into danger. Be careful, Sherlock.

John  
***  
He hardly knew the man and it wasn't his place to tell him what to do or what not. But if the detective would really be such a fool, it was perhaps better to let him know that his own health was still more important than John's urgency to get Moran into prison.  
***  
To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

Your concern is appreciated, but I am not at risk. I have gotten close to Moran and know what kind of behaviour will keep me under his radar for potential harmful attentions.

S.H.  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

You're a madman. I thought you had heard enough about what that man does.  
Keep mailing me regularly so at least I know you're still alive. Dead you won't prove much about Moran.

John  
***  
John frowned as he shut his laptop. He had to go for his shift, but he had a feeling that he couldn't shake off being worried about Holmes very soon. He understood that the man had his own methods, but getting close to Moran was the same as getting close to self-destruction. However much he wanted the public to be free from Moran's threats, he never meant to risk the detective's life to achieve that.  
...  
When John returned from his shift, Sherlock hadn't answered yet. He could only hope the detective hadn't returned to the lion's den. After a night of restless sleep, John's thoughts kept grinding over the case and Sherlock's way to try and solve it, so much that he even managed to put the situation with Mary out of his head until it was time for her to return from recon in the evening. He was almost late to meet her at the appointed place, and when he arrived some of the soldiers were already unloading a jeep.  
Mary waved at him, as soon as she spotted him. "Watson," she called, grinning. "Glad to see you're still alive."  
"Mary," John breathed, relieved at how normal her greeting sounded. "God, it's good to see you." He walked towards her and hugged her.  
She returned the hug, resting her head on his shoulder for a brief moment. "It's good to see you too," she whispered.  
"I, uhm, I wasn't sure we were okay, after..." John blushed, but they had to talk about it at some point.  
She laughed. "Hey, you weren't that bad." She ruffled his hair teasingly. "But I actually gotta dash. I really need a shower and a meal. Can we hook up later tonight? You look like you need to talk."  
John laughed and nodded. "See you later."  
He went through the evening feeling a lot better now he knew that he needn't worry so much about Mary's friendship, and as soon as he thought he had given her enough time to refresh herself, he knocked on her door. "You can just tell me to piss off and come back tomorrow," he called through the door.  
"Get yourself in here, Watson," she called, laughing. As he entered the room, she poured two glasses of single malt. "Don't ask where I got this," she said, handing one to him.  
John blinked at the glass. "I won't ask a thing and just be very very grateful you want to share this with me."  
She held her own glass up, nodded and sipped the whisky, closing her eyes for a moment. "It's good to be back," she said.  
"Yeah, you're always welcome if you bring this," John chuckled, tasting the whisky.  
She raised an eyebrow. "Only if I bring this?"  
"Or another good drink," John grinned. "How was the recon?"  
Mary groaned. "Boring and at the same time stressful. Let's not talk about that." She took another, rather large, sip of her whisky. "How about you? What have you been up to while I was gone?  
John looked worried for a moment, but then dropped the subject of the recon and shrugged. "Nothing much. A lot of waiting, except that Tyler fell and injured his arm rather badly. Oh, and Sherlock mailed. He told me to thank you, because you were a lot of help to get him further in the case." He frowned.  
She studied him for a moment. "Something's wrong," she said. "Is it something about Moran?"  
John sighed. "I'm worried about Holmes," he admitted. "He had new information about Moran, which is of course good for the case - but I really don't like the way he got it."  
"Oh? And how did he get it?" she asked, refilling her glass.  
"He said he got close to him. And regarding the fact that he had a lot of new information about Moran's sexual urges..." He sipped the whisky, looking distressed.  
"Oh my god... Do you think he...?" she shivered and put her glass down. "No. He couldn't have."  
John shook his head. "I really don't know what he could or could not have. You've seen him."  
She snorted. "I have... He's quite... fascinating, isn't he? I don't doubt Moran would be eager to get his paws on him. But... he's really smart, right? He must know how dangerous such a thing would be."  
John nodded. "I just hope he found another way to get to that information than what we think."  
"I'm sure he has." She moved a little closer and ran a gentle hand through John's hair. "You really worry about him, don't you?"  
"I feel like he's our only chance to bring Moran what he deserves," John answered, looking at her.  
She moved her hand down to his cheek. "Is that all, John? Because, from what I could see, you two have somehow become... friends?"  
John gave her a weak smile. "I'm not sure he's even the type to have friends. He asks what he needs and I'm happy to help because there's an advantage in it for me as well. Probably the contact will drop right away as soon as he's solved the case."  
"He may not be that type, but you are," she said and gave him a soft kiss. "And you could use a friend. Someone who's not part of all the madness over here."  
John looked a little surprised at the kiss. "Do you want, uhm..."  
Mary kissed him again, a little more firmly. "Do you mind?" she asked. "I could use the distraction. And I think you could too." She took the glass out of his hand and put it on the table.  
John smiled and answered the kiss. "I don't mind at all."  
"Good," she said, smirking slightly as she pulled him towards the bed.  
...  
John sighed happily as he pulled Mary closer to his chest on the bed. "That was good," he mumbled sleepily.  
"Very," she muttered. "You're getting better."  
He snorted and kissed her hair. "What a little exercise does, huh?"  
"Indeed. We'll have you in shape in no time."  
"So now even my shape isn't to your liking? Wonder what I'm actually doing here," John chuckled.  
She giggled. "Shagging?"  
"And have you commenting on my shape afterwards. Isn't that just great?" John pouted for a moment, then grinned.  
"I'm sorry." Mary put on a serious expression. "You have a gorgeous body and you are amazing in bed. How's that?"  
"Much better," John nodded. "Of course I can say the same about you."  
"Of course you can." She giggled.  
"So," John said after a moment of silence in which he had distractedly been stroking her arm. "Is this going to be, you know, a regular thing?"  
She frowned slightly. "I suppose that depends on what you mean by a 'regular thing'."  
"Uhm. I'm not quite sure what I mean myself. I don't want to limit your freedom or anything. But as long as there's no one else for either of us, I really wouldn't mind if it happened now and then?"  
"Not much freedom to limit around here, is there? But if you're suggesting we can get together and shag when we feel like it without having to do the whole couple-thing, then I'm all for it. I really don't need an actual partner in my life right now. But the nights do get lonely here." She looked up at him, smiling.  
John gave her a bright smile back. "Great. That's- that's what I want, too."  
"Good." She moved up to kiss him. "Now that that's settled, do you think you could go for a round two?"  
"Making the most out of it, hmm?" John chuckled, before rolling over on top of her and kissing her deeply.  
…  
In the morning, John returned to his own room for a change of clothes. As his gaze fell on his laptop, he frowned, and although he was only half dressed yet, he sat down and typed out a quick mail.  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Lt. Moran

Hey, are you alright there? It's been a while since I heard from you and your last message about Moran wasn't exactly reassuring. Just let me know something.

John  
***  
In the evening when he returned from his shift, John still hadn't received an answer from Sherlock. He frowned and bit his lip, worried about the strange man. Only when he checked his mail a last time before he went to sleep, there was a new message.  
***  
To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

I have not been contacted by Moran since our last correspondence.  
I have been working on a case for Scotland Yard.

S. Holmes  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

I'm glad to hear you're okay. Will you continue on the Moran case afterwards? Is the other case related?  
I hope you don't mind my curiosity. Nothing much has been happening here today.

John  
***  
To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

I doubt the two cases are related. This was a simple case of domestic murder, which I was called in on, because the incompetent forensics unit at Scotland Yard had declared it impossible.

S. Holmes  
***  
John chuckled as he read it. He began to understand that Sherlock indeed thought everyone of lesser intellect than himself, and that his earlier arrogant attitude towards John hadn't been personal. It also made him curious about Sherlock's more 'everyday' jobs.  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

And yet you solved it? How?

John  
***  
The answer came so quickly it almost seemed to have been typed in advance.  
***  
To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

It was really very simple. The only person in the house at the time was the victim’s nephew, who was supposedly sleeping in his bed. The young man had been living with his uncle since he had been seriously injured in a traffic collision three years ago.  
All witnesses testified that the kid resented his uncle and had a history of cold blooded violence, but it was believed he could not have committed this murder.  
The victim's throat had been slit while he was standing in the kitchen and the nephew was in a wheelchair, having had his spinal cord partially severed in the accident. So, the logic went: how could he have reached high enough to put a knife to the throat of a grown man?  
The answer was, of course, simple. The young man had, over the years, been regaining some use of his legs, but had kept it hidden until he was able to keep on his feet long enough to get to the kitchen and kill his uncle.  
He then retrieved his wheelchair and hurried to his uncle's side, making sure to handle him enough before calling for help, to cover up the bloodstains that had gotten on his clothes as he killed him.

S. Holmes  
***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

And it was only a kid who did it? Was his uncle really that bad?  
How could you prove it?

John  
***  
To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

The young man was 19. He was emotionally unstable and had been involved in gang-related crimes since he was 12, so he was used to that level of violence.  
The uncle was a very authoritative man who had seized his nephews injury as a chance to force the kid to change. So he had convinced his brother to sign over the custody of the, then still minor, boy to him and moved him into his large house where he had kept him more or less isolated for three years, hoping to quell his 'unfortunate tendencies'. The young man has probably been plotting his uncle's death for most of that time.  
I made sure he was left alone in an interrogation room at the Yard and then played the sound of a fire alarm over the intercom system, so only he would hear it. When nobody came to get him, he panicked, got up and made his way to the door. The whole thing was of course caught on camera.

S. Holmes  
***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

So you proved he could walk and that the murder was actually possible. Brilliant.  
What are you going to do now that case is closed?

John  
***  
Only now, John realised that he had been planning to go to bed already quite a while ago. Still, he was too curious about Sherlock's answer to shut down his computer right away, and he waited.  
***  
To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

Fire tends to expose our priorities, in this case the young man's life over the urge to keep his secret. It was only logical.  
I have no immediate plans, but I am sure a new case will present itself, as it always does.  
I will also be looking further into profiling Moran, but will have to wait for him to make a move.

S. Holmes  
***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

Be careful with Moran. Maybe send me a mail when he contacts you, so I know when to get worried if you don't answer anymore. It could make the difference if I attract someone's attention to the fact you seem to have disappeared if he's keeping you in a basement... Of course I hope it won't come to that. Just be careful.  
I'm going to bed now, see you later.

John  
***  
To: Capt. J. Watson  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

I will.

S. Holmes  
***  
John smiled when he saw Sherlock's short answer in the morning before he got to work. He met Mary for lunch - just to talk this time - but he was not even halfway through his bowl of soup when he was called away.  
Lt. Miller, a younger man who had arrived around the same time as Mary, came up to them. "Let's go, Watson," he said. "You're needed in the field. Roadside bomb it seems. Three wounded, no deaths. So far." He glanced at Mary. "Lt. Morstan," he said, his tone changing subtly. "You're looking... content." He winked at her and turned and headed out again.  
For a moment, John frowned between the two of them, but he was already up and taking what he needed. "See you later, Mary," he called behind him, as he ran after Miller.  
Miller was already waiting by the jeep. He grinned at John. "That was quick. I was afraid I'd have to wait forever for you two to finish saying goodbye."  
"What are you talking about?" John said as he jumped in his seat.  
"With you two being lovers. Or is it just a bedroom thing?" He snorted as he started the jeep.  
John frowned. "I don't think that's relevant now, or any of your business anyway. Shouldn't you tell me more about the wounded men?"  
"It's three of the younger privates. One scalp wound, some first and second degree burns and possibly one broken leg. And they think Jenkins is concussed." He glanced quickly at John. "I suppose it was just a matter of time before she dropped her knickers. Where you just lucky to be in the right place at the right time, or did you have some clever tactic you could share?"  
John looked disturbed. "Can you stop that? I'm supposed to focus on my job, not to listen to your fantasies."  
"Your job starts when we get there," Miller said. "No harm in sharing a little on the way. So tell me, is she any good? Those headstrong bitches are often real firecrackers in bed."  
John gave him an emotionless look. "You are talking about one of our colleagues. Please try and show a little bit of respect, thanks." Then it struck him. He didn't know Miller that well, but he had often seen him hang around Moran, without paying him much notice. No wonder those two had hit it off. He suddenly felt even more uncomfortable around the young man.  
"Oh, so that's your trick? Showing them respect? Never tried that one myself, but it seems to be working for you." He chuckled. "You're a clever man, Watson."  
John snorted. "Seriously? You never even learnt what the word 'respect' means? Just shut it, Miller."  
"Oh, I know what it means. Just never saw the appeal."  
John closed his eyes for a moment to contain his anger. "I told you to shut it. You just ignored an order from a superior."  
Miller glared at him for a moment, then focused on the road without speaking another word.  
John couldn't help a relieved sigh. The more that man kept quiet, the more the world was blessed.   
When they finally arrived, he made his way to the private with the head wound first, barking orders at Miller to take care of the others. At least he did as John told him, and none of the soldiers seemed in immediate danger of life.  
On the way back, Miller kept silent, seeming to sulk a little. When they got back to camp he shot John an insolent glare and stalked off. On the way to his barracks, he passed Mary and gave her such an obvious once-over that it made her cringe.  
"Bloody hell," John muttered under his breath as he saw him, but he couldn't go to Mary with the three men needing his help more than she did.  
As he worked steadily, practisedly stitching their wounds, his mind lingered on Miller. Had he just been a friend of Moran's, admiring his superior in showing as little respect as he did himself, or had they really been working together? Had Miller been in on the plan to keep victims in the basement? Of course, talking to Moran wasn't a crime. Maybe they had indeed just become mates. But he couldn't help feeling unnerved after hearing the young man talk about Mary.   
As he checked his work and reassured the privates that they would be alright, he left and went for his laptop straight away.  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

I don't want to accuse an innocent man and I am absolutely not certain of what I'm saying, but one of the lieutenants here, who was rather close to Moran, caught my attention today. Do you think Moran was working with others? Should I keep an eye on the Lt.?

John  
***  
To: Capt. Watson  
Re: re: Lt. Morstan

There is nothing to indicate that he had any accomplishes while in Afghanistan. On the other hand he is clearly used to having someone work under him, so it cannot be ruled out. If possible, see if you can find out anything more about this man and his relationship with Moran.

S. Holmes  
***  
John sighed. Well, that meant more talking to Miller and he wasn't exactly looking forward to that. But somehow, Sherlock's mail had calmed him down a little. It didn't do to panic and make an enemy of Miller just because he was one of those ill-mannered bastards.  
He walked out, but then realised he had no idea where in the barracks he could find the young lieutenant. He stopped the first person he saw in the corridors. "Lieutenant, do you have any idea where I can find Lt. Miller?"  
"Miller... The gay one that's trying too hard to be straight?" the blond man asked with a smirk.  
John frowned but didn't answer, and the lieutenant's smirk fell.  
"Sorry, Sir. At this time he's probably having dinner, Sir."  
"Thank you," John nodded, turning to find him.  
Before he could reach the mess hall, however, Mary caught up with him. "So," she said. "How bad was it?"  
John smiled at her. "The boys were alright. One of them will be out for a while, but it wasn't as bad as it looked on first sight."  
"And Miller? As creepy as ever?" She shuddered a little. "I swear... the way that man looks at me..."  
"He is horrible. And I was thinking... Do you remember, when Moran was still around? Wasn't Miller the kid hanging out with him now and then, or am I mistaking him for someone else?"  
She thought for a moment. "You know, I think he was." Then she gasped. "You don't think he was... helping him?"  
"I hope not," John said, looking earnestly at her. "But I'm going to talk to him, see what I can find out. Sherlock thinks Moran was working alone here, though. Probably it's nothing."  
She nodded. "Let's hope not. But I suppose it would explain why he hates me so much."  
John put a hand on her arm. "Try to stay away from him." Then he walked off towards the table where Miller was sitting.  
"Lt. Miller," he said, tilting his head to indicate that the man should come with him.  
Grumbling Miller got to his feet. "What do you want... Sir? I did what you told me to, didn't I?"  
"Yes, but I have a few questions for you. Follow me." John went before him to the relative privacy outdoors, where at least there weren't that many curious ears listening.  
"What kind of questions?" Miller asked when John stopped walking.  
"Colonel Sebastian Moran," John said. "You knew him before he was discharged, right?"  
Miller glared at him. "Didn't everybody? He was a hard man to overlook."  
"Are you still in contact with him?" John asked.  
"Of course I'm not. Why should I be? He was a superior, that's all. And a prick."  
John almost smiled at the conviction with which Miller said that last word. "So you weren't friends," he said calmly.  
A slight shiver ran down Miller's body. "How could anyone be friends with that man?" He hesitated a moment, then added. "We hung out a few times. Y'know, drinking and stuff."  
"Yes, I saw you with him now and then, I think," John nodded, suddenly growing worried. "What happened, then?"  
"What happened? We'd get drunk. Talk about women and shit. You know, like blokes do." Miller's eyes flickered over their surroundings and he shifted slightly, burying his hands in his pockets.  
John frowned. "I meant, what happened that makes you think of him as a prick? I agree wholeheartedly with that opinion, let that be clear. But something must have changed?"  
Miller tensed and then shrugged. "Nothing happened. He was just... y'know... a twat. I got tired of him and found others to hang with."  
"Like who? You were having dinner on your own when I just called you," John said carefully.  
"They transferred out, didn't they?" he answered, evasively.  
John sighed. "Miller, listen. You know Colonel Moran got discharged ignominiously. He's done things- I'm not supposed to talk about it, but it was really bad, and yet he's still out there now back home. If anything happened that can be used against him, anything at all, I just hope you will tell me. I know we started off on the wrong foot, but I won't judge you."  
Miller just looked at him for a moment, then said, his voice barely more than a whisper: "Nothing happened." He looked away. "Can I go now... Sir?"  
"Sure," John nodded. "But Miller. Leave Lieutenant Morstan alone."  
Miller sighed. "Whatever."  
When John walked back to the mess, the lieutenant that had directed him to Miller walked towards him.  
“Well, did you find Miller, Sir?” he asked.  
John nodded. “He was very helpful,” he said, feeling like he should support Miller a little.  
“Oh, he would, Sir,” the man grinned, giving John a quick once-over.  
John rolled his eyes. “What makes you so sure he’s into men?”  
“I was in a tent next to his once, Sir. You’d think they’d keep quiet then, but no. A right racket they made, he and that colonel of his.” He chuckled. “He’ll probably miss him now he’s been bought out...”  
“To be honest, I doubt it,” John said.  
“Ooh. Found another one, did he, Sir?” the lieutenant smirked.  
John sighed. Right, now the gossip would be about him. Some people just lived to create facts about others’ lives.  
...   
To John’s horror, Miller’s medical records only confirmed what he had been suspecting. Only a week before they had caught Moran in that basement, Miller had been in with injuries that could point to rape, but no charges had been pressed. He might not like Miller, but a shiver went through John as he read it. As he put the files down, his thoughts returned to Sherlock. The detective had told him that he believed that being close to Moran put him out of risk for his more dangerous attentions. But obviously Miller had been rather close to him as well. He must warn him immediately.  
He rushed back to his room and immediately opened his laptop to type as fast as he could.  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Be careful  
   
Sherlock,  
   
I just talked to that man. He hasn’t been working with Moran, I’m quite sure of that. He was one of his victims. Please watch out with him. Miller was his friend, but that didn’t stop him. I don’t think getting close to the colonel was such a good idea.  
   
John  
***  
Before John could hit send, a mail arrived from Sherlock.  
***  
To: Capt. J. Watson  
Subject: Checking in

I am on my way out the door for another meeting with Moran. I hope to learn more and will let you know.

S. Holmes  
***  
John sent his mail anyway, but felt alarmed when he read Sherlock's message. He hoped fiercely that Sherlock would still see his own mail.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had, in fact, been half way down the stairs when he had remembered that he had promised to let Watson know if he was to meet with Moran again. So he hurried back up, typed the quick message and then, as he hit 'send', he got another impatient text from Moran demanding that he show up at once. So he quickly closed the laptop and rushed down to the waiting cab.  
As usual, he had no idea what kind of job he was doing, but Moran had made it clear it was urgent. He had only barely had time to change to Thomas Stevenson and had almost forgotten to fix his hair, which had been unsuitably neat, as he had been at the Yard all day, trying to make a good impression on Lestrade. It was only grudgingly that the man had let him in on the last case, still not completely convinced that Sherlock was clean, so he needed to constantly remind the inspector that he had 'gotten his life back on track'.  
Once the cab was on the way, he finally had time to text Moran: I'm on my way. What's the job this time? TS  
We need to find someone who isn't waiting in one place until you finally decide to delight us with your presence, so get the hell over here, the answer sounded.  
Sherlock grinned. This sounded like a job he'd actually be good for. Yes Sir. TS

The cab dropped him off at the designated address, which was really more of a street corner, in a rather unpleasant part of town.  
He couldn't immediately spot Moran, but suddenly the colonel was standing in front of him. "She's still here," he said with a short nod.  
Sherlock frowned. "We're looking for a woman? Who is she?"  
"Someone who shouldn't be alive anymore," Moran said, his face grim.   
Sherlock had to fight to keep his expression neutral. "Right," he said. "So where about is she?"  
Moran pointed up at a window. "That flat over there, but she isn't alone. And we need to be careful with this one. It already went wrong once..."  
"What happened last time?" Sherlock asked "Who is with her? Anyone dangerous?"  
Moran shook his head. "If necessary, we could take them all out. But it would attract unnecessary attention. Last time we wanted to get rid of her because she had witnessed a job, but the one who got to her wasn't thorough enough and she survived. Now she's out of hospital and we could get in real trouble if she testifies against us."  
"Right." Sherlock stored the information. "So how do we do this? Just walk up and knock on the door?"  
Moran raised his eyebrows. "Does that sound like a very successful method to you?"  
Sherlock grinned. "It would look cool and confident. But then again, you're not exactly Vincent Vega."  
Moran gave him an unimpressed look. "Unless you can think up a good excuse to pay them a visit, we wait until it's safe."  
"So we wait." Sherlock got out his a cigarette and lit it.  
Moran turned his head towards him. "Put that out," he said lowly.  
Sherlock frowned. "Why?" he asked, taking another deep drag.  
"You know how your smoking can distract me. We can't have that right now, can we?" Moran stared down at his mouth.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and blew the smoke out slowly. "Don't look, then," he said before inhaling again.  
"You're right there," Moran answered, stepping closer.  
Sherlock kept his eyes on him as he exhaled, rounding his lips a little more than strictly necessary.  
"I hope you realise what I do to people who don't follow my orders," Moran whispered hoarsely, before he turned around and focused on the window again.  
"I can imagine," Sherlock said, calmly, continuing to smoke, deciding that this was an, admittedly risky, opportunity for an insight into the darker aspects of Moran's behaviour.  
Moran ignored him. "I think they are leaving," he said after a while.  
Sherlock focused on his cigarette, looking like an ordinary bloke having been sent outside to smoke. "Better hide your face," he muttered to Moran. "If there's any chance they know who you are."  
Two young women came out. One was wearing too tight and revealing clothes, topped off with an alarming amount of make-up. The other one was dressed casually, bordering on sloppily, in jeans and a sweatshirt.  
"Are you sure we got everything?" the casual girl asked the other one.  
"Clothes for two weeks, her phone and wallet," her friend answered. "Anything else she can borrow."  
"Well, she's not borrowing my diaphragm," the first girl said and they both laughed as they disappeared round the corner, both carrying heavy gym bags.  
"She should be alone now," Moran muttered so only Sherlock could hear him, only focusing on the two girls leaving and not on what they were saying.  
"Probably," Sherlock said, without thinking. "But obviously not here, since they were picking up things for her. She is hiding somewhere, no doubt expecting someone to come looking for her here."  
Moran glared at him. "If it's all so obvious, then why didn't you say so while we were waiting?"  
"Because I hadn't overheard her friends then," Sherlock countered, sticking out his chin defiantly. "And you'd told me she was there. I assumed you knew what you were talking about."  
"Get in there and check if you're right, smartass," Moran said between his teeth, clearly trying to keep his anger under control. "I'll follow them to where she's hidden. If you find her, kill her, and make a good job of it or you'll regret it... If you get the chance." He turned and walked in the direction the girls had gone.  
"Yes, Sir," Sherlock said with a smirk and hurried off towards the building.  
He picked the lock easily and in less than a minute had determined that their target was 24 years old, was called Jane Levington ('friends call me Janie'), was the youngest of four children to a widowed mother, was nearsighted and a fan of the TV-show Merlin. It took a little longer to discover that she was currently staying with a friend called 'Fuzzy' and even longer to determine that Fuzzy was the heavily made-up of the two friends they had seen.  
After fifteen minutes he had Fuzzy's address and set off. On his way down the stairs he got out his phone and let it drop down several steps. He smiled when he heard the desired 'chink' of breaking glass.  
Now he had a legitimate excuse for not informing Moran where Jane Levington was.  
The two women had set off in the opposite direction of where Fuzzy lived. He hoped that they had done so with the purpose of confusing anyone observing them. That would probably mean that Moran would be significantly delayed.  
But he still had quite a head start, so Sherlock ran as fast as he could. His only hope of saving this woman's life was to get to her first. If he could make it seem like she had left before he got there, it would be best. Otherwise he would have to let Moran believe that she had escaped him, and then face the consequences.  
Fuzzy's home was an old terraced house on a long narrow street, completely indistinguishable from the others houses apart from the number over the door and the garishly pink curtains in an upstairs window.  
Sherlock picked the lock, expecting that Jane would be wary of letting strangers in, and then deftly ducked to dodge the heavy book thrown at him. He held out a hand in a reassuring gesture. "Jane, please," he called to the figure now hiding behind the dining table, visible through a doorway. "I'm here to help you."  
The young woman reached behind her back and picked up a knife. "Get out," she said, her voice trembling.  
Sherlock completely dropped the Stevenson persona and found his most reassuring demeanour. "No, really. I'm here to help you. Someone's coming and you have to leave. Now."  
She lowered the knife a little. "Where do I have to go?"  
"Somewhere where no one will think to look for you. Your friends are being followed as we speak." Sherlock listened for a moment, but no one was approaching. "New Scotland Yard would be best."  
"I'm not sure the police is so keen on helping me," she said hesitantly.  
"Have you tried?" he asked, a suspicion beginning to take shape in his mind.  
She shrugged. "With what I do for a living, it's not much use."  
He nodded, then took a quick look around. There were two doors and a narrow flight of stairs. She was in the room facing the front of the house. A good position to keep an eye on the door, but also very exposed, should Moran show up. He reached out a hand. "Come with me. We should go to the back of the house."  
She took his hand and followed. "Why are you helping me?" she asked, looking up at him.  
"Why shouldn't I?" he asked, smiling a little. He brought her through to the kitchen where, as he had expected, there was a door leading to the garden. He knew he should get her out as quickly as possible, but he had to know. So he held on to her hand. "Can I ask you something?"  
She frowned and nodded.  
"What was it that you saw?"  
"Why they're after me, you mean?"  
"Yes. I heard that you'd seen something. That they tried to... to silence you but failed."  
"They killed a man. A client of mine. Very nearly killed me, too." She pulled down her scarf to show the bandage around her neck.  
"What man? Did you know his name? Or can you describe him?"  
"Ehm." She closed her eyes for a moment. "Nathan... something? He had dark hair. Somewhere in his forties."  
Sherlock had to close his eyes too and force himself not to cry out in triumph. "And those who killed him. Who were they?"  
She frowned. "Do we have time for this now?"  
Sherlock sighed. "No. You're right. But the man who was after him. I may be able to stop him. But I need your help." He looked around and found a scrap of paper and a pen. He scribbled down his address. "Please... Go here. You'll be safe and we can talk. I cannot come with you now. I have to stop him from following you."  
She bit her lip for a moment, then looked back up at him and nodded. "Thank you." Then she went out, carefully looked around the corner and ran.  
Sherlock watched her go and then spun around as he heard the front door open so forcefully it slammed against the wall.  
Moran stomped in and stopped as he saw Sherlock. "Is she here?"  
Sherlock had just had time to shift his position so it looked like he had come through the back door. He shook his head. "Not back here," he said, panting a little as if he had been running.  
Moran cursed and punched the wall in frustration. "How could you let her go?"  
"I... I didn't see her," Sherlock lied, but the excitement of having found the one thing that could solve this case quickly was shining through. He knew it, but for once couldn't control it. All he could do was try to mask it as anxiety. Fear. "I got here as fast as I could."  
"How did you even know where to go?" Moran sharply looked at him.  
"I found the address," Sherlock said. "At the flat."  
Moran stared at him for a moment. "And you didn't think it would be a good idea to fucking let me know?" His voice went louder with every word and he pushed against Sherlock's chest.  
"My... my phone," Sherlock stammered, as his back hit the wall. He fumbled to get it out of his pocket. "I dropped it down the stairs. I was going to call you but... it slipped."  
"You stupid fucking idiot." Moran's fist came down hard in Sherlock's face, then the other in his stomach.  
Sherlock cried out and then collapsed. He did not fight back or try to defend himself, knowing it would only make things that much worse.  
Moran bent down and pressed a hand over Sherlock's throat. "You useless bastard. You don't even deserve what I had planned for you tonight, not even to be a useless toy beneath me." He let go as Sherlock gasped, then stepped back and kicked him in the groin.  
Sherlock screamed and doubled up, trying not to present any vulnerable areas to another kick. Moran's foot only reached his ribs a few times more, then the bigger man pulled him up and slapped him hard in the face. "Get out of my sight," he hissed.  
Limping and stumbling, Sherlock managed to find his way out the back door, even with one eye swollen almost shut from the original punch. His side hurt and he suspected one, maybe two, bruised ribs. His groin was still throbbing with pain and his head felt heavy and dull. He slid along the fence to the gate at the back of the garden and slowly made his way down the narrow alley.  
He finally reached the end of the alley, praising his luck that at least he was in a neighbourhood with very little surveillance, so the CCTV cameras were easily avoided. The downside was that there were no cabs roaming the streets looking for rides. And he couldn't call one since his phone was not only broken but lay on the kitchen floor back at the house. Unless of course Moran had taken it with him. Good thing it hadn't been his own phone, but just one he used for this job. If Moran actually got it working, all he would find were the number for some pizza places, two cab companies and his own number. As well as a couple of pictures of scantily clad muscular men, all of them blond, rugged and having some feature in common with Moran. Having Moran snoop through his phone had been an early plan before he had realised just how easy getting the man interested would be.  
He had walked, or rather limped and stumbled for nearly half an hour before he spotted an empty cab that had just dropped off an elderly couple. He waved frantically and it stopped. He gave the address and gratefully sank down in the backseat with a pained grunt.  
"You sure you don't need a hospital instead, mate?" the driver asked, looking a little worried in the rear-view mirror.  
"I'm fine," Sherlock gasped as a stabbing pain shot through his ribs. "Just take me to Baker Street."  
...  
After paying the cabbie, Sherlock stood a couple of minutes outside the front door, gathering strength for getting up the stairs.  
The door opened in front of him and his landlady came out, looking shocked as she saw him. "Oh, Sherlock, dear, what have you done now?" She took his hand and gently pulled him inside.  
He hissed at another stab of pain in his ribs. "I got in a little... disagreement," he muttered. "I just need some rest and I'll be fine."  
"You can come to my place if the stairs are too much, dear. Shall I make you a cup of tea?" Mrs. Hudson asked.  
"No, thank you," he said, smiling crookedly. "I just need a moment." He breathed deeply, ignoring the ache, and then began climbing the stairs slowly, leaning on the wall.  
Mrs. Hudson kept watching him as went up. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock," she said, frowning a little.   
"Always, Mrs. Hudson," he said, as he let himself in.  
He headed straight for the bathroom and spent the better part of an hour patching himself up. Then he somehow managed to make a cup of tea and settled at his laptop. The first thing he saw was an email from John, sent at the same time he had left home. He read it and let out a dry chuckle.  
With slightly shaking hands he typed an answer:

***  
To: John Watson  
Subject: Good call

I think you are probably right about that.

S.H.  
***


	7. Chapter 7

John had just returned to his room after his shift, and he was anxiously checking his email and then tapping his fingers next to the keyboard. It had been hours since Sherlock had sent his mail. Who knew what Moran had done to him?  
Relief flooded through him when the mail finally arrived, but it didn't last long. He didn't like Sherlock's agreement one bit. Had Moran tried to make a move on him? Fuck, had he succeeded?  
Chewing his lip, John wrote an answer.  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: Good call

God, what happened? Are you okay?  
I can make some time for Skype if you want.

John  
***  
It was almost five minutes before the answer came.  
***  
To: John Watson  
Re: re: Good Call

I am fine. But busy.

S.H.  
***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Good call

Then what did you mean? What happened? Just 5 minutes, Sherlock. 

John  
***  
Come on, John thought, impatiently waiting for the answer. Just let me check on you after having worried about you all day.  
***  
To: John Watson  
Re: re: Good Call  
Fine. 5 minutes.

S.H.  
***

Shortly after, Sherlock logged on to Skype.  
For a moment, John didn't say anything and just stared at Sherlock's image. The normally pale face was bruised and battered, there was some dried blood on Sherlock's bottom lip and all in all he looked a mess with one eye shut.  
"God, you idiot," John whispered, wincing in sympathy.  
"Gee, thanks," Sherlock answered wryly. "It's not as bad as it looks."  
"What happened?" John asked quietly. "I mean, I can see that," he waved a hand to Sherlock's face on his screen, "but...?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "I was supposed to help Moran catch and kill a woman. I let her go."  
"God. That alone should be enough to get him locked up, no? If you tell the police he did this to you?"  
"I can't prove it," Sherlock said. "And even if I could, this kind of assault will not put him away for long. If his employer pulls some strings he'd probably just get a suspended sentence." Sherlock shrugged. "But it doesn't matter. There was a witness to the murder I'm investigating. I gave her my address. As soon as she shows up this will all be over. I will not have to go near him again except to testify against him in the murder trial."  
John nodded slowly. "Take care. Make sure he doesn't come after you before you get the chance."  
Sherlock smiled a little. "Not much risk. He does not know my name or where I live. After tonight he'll probably expect me to leave the city, so he will not be looking for me."  
"Then don't go looking for him," John said. "Did you put ice on those wounds?"  
Sherlock nodded. "I've taken care of it. And once I have that woman's statement on record, Moran will be out of our lives and off the streets."  
John shook his head slightly. "You're a brave man. I just wish there was another way to do this than almost making yourself one of his victims."  
Sherlock smiled. "It's not so different from what you do. Do you not also risk your life to help ensure the safety of others?"  
John huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, well. I think that right now we can agree that I look a little healthier than you do."  
"Yeah," Sherlock laughed too. "I guess I've seen more combat than you."  
"It's getting a little less boring here these days," John smiled. "I'm just lucky that I'm on the right side of it all."  
"We both are," Sherlock said. "Just at different fronts."  
"So what are you going to do now? Get some rest?" John asked.  
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. I'll need it. The witness should arrive within the next twelve hours or so, and then it's back to work, though..." He smiled. "A much safer kind of work."  
John returned his smile. "Good to hear that. Good luck with it all. Maybe put some Hirudoid on those bruises to make them fade faster. As long as you avoid the cuts. And use the gel, not the cream, it'll feel cooler."  
"Yes. I will try that. Thank you."  
"I'll leave you then, if you're busy. See you later," John said.  
"Yes. See you." Sherlock nodded and logged off.  
John was still smiling as he turned off his laptop. All in all, Sherlock had been lucky to come out of Moran's rage like that. Alright, it hadn't been an improvement to his looks, but at least it had just been a beating. Miller's injuries hadn't been so bad, but at least Sherlock had been spared his mental trauma. John wondered if it would be a good idea to tell the lieutenant the case was as good as closed. But then, that would be a care for the next day. He too needed his rest.  
...  
In the morning, John left a little earlier to find Mary still in her room. "Good morning," he smiled as he went in.  
She beamed and him. "John," she said as she walked over, wrapped her arms around him and gave him a sound, rather wet kiss.  
"Oh, well, very good morning in that case," John grinned as he stole another quick kiss.  
She giggled. "You look good," she said. "More relaxed than I've seen you in a while. I take it you heard from Sherlock."  
John smiled. "He'd be proud of your powers of deduction. Not that he was in such a good state when I saw him."  
"Oh... Did Moran hurt him?"  
"Yes. But he said he was fine, and he's found a witness against Moran."  
"A witness? Not just second hand like us, but someone who's actually seen him kill?"  
John nodded. "A proper witness."  
"But... But that's wonderful." She kissed him again.  
John chuckled and hugged her. "I know."  
She leaned on him for a moment. "As long as they'll talk of course."  
"I'm sure Sherlock will reach his goal. It's clear he wants to go great lengths to do so," John said.  
She giggled. "He's really made quite an impression, hasn't he?"  
"Oh, shut up," John laughed. "Say, is there still time to take advantage of my looking good this morning?"  
She glanced at her watch. "If we're quick about it." She reached down and quickly opened his trousers.  
…  
John felt smug as he walked into the mess, and he had almost forgotten about his resolution to brief Miller when he saw him sitting alone at one of the tables.   
"Miller," he greeted as he sat down next to him.  
Miller glared at him and shifted a little to put more distance between them. "What do you want?"  
"Oy, calm down," John said. "I just wanted to tell you that the Moran case is as good as wrapped. That's good news, right?"  
"What case?" Miller snapped, not looking at John.  
"The one that can finally get him in prison, where he belongs after everything he's done."  
"So? Why should I care?" Miller put down his fork and began to stand.  
"I know what he did to you, Miller. And it's horrid. I'm really sorry."  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Miller said, glaring at him as he turned and walked away.  
John sighed and started his breakfast.  
…  
Despite what he had said to Sherlock, John's day was rather boring, and he was glad when he could return to his room for the night. There were no new emails from Sherlock, but to his surprise there was one from his sister's wife.  
***  
To: John  
Subject: an update

Hi John.  
I hope you are doing well, at least as well as can be expected when living in a warzone.  
I do not want you to feel like I'm dumping my problems on you, but you have often stressed that you want to be kept in the loop about happenings back home.  
I don't know if you have spoken to Harry, but the situation is, that I have moved out and filed for separation. I have fought for years to make this work, but I feel I am fighting alone. Harry has begun drinking again and she cannot be reasoned with.  
You know how she is to be around and our home was beginning to feel like a minefield. I never knew which of my actions, words or even just looks would set her off. Whole days would be consumed by shouting matches, leaving me in tears and her storming out for another all-nighter at the pub.  
It saddens me to end this, but I no longer see a future for us.  
I hope that you will still consider me your friend, and I hope to see you next time you are in London.

Love   
Clara  
***  
"Oh, fuck," John muttered. It had been ages since he had heard from his sister, but then that hadn't been so different from the normal situation. After all they didn't get on that well. But to hear she had even relapsed... He sent a quick answer to Clara, thanking her for telling this and for all the support she had given his sister. He supposed he should be mad at her for leaving Harry, but knowing the situation, he realised that Clara had done all she could. Now it was his turn to get Harry back on the rails, but how was he going to do that from here?  
He rested his head in his hands for a while, trying to get his thoughts clear, but then decided that that wasn't going to work on his own.  
As he knocked on Mary's door, he hoped she wouldn't kick him out right away.  
When Mary saw him, her smile immediately melted away. "John," she said. "What's wrong? Is it Sherlock?"  
John shook his head. "I'm sorry for coming here so late, I know you have to get up early - but it's my sister..."  
Mary ushered him inside. "Your sister? What's happened?"  
John took a deep breath. "She's drinking again. And her wife has left her, I can't blame her, but now there's no one to keep an eye on her, and it can get pretty bad." He bit his lip.  
Mary pulled him into a hug. "I'm so sorry. I know it must kill you to be stuck here, unable to help."  
John nodded and buried his head in her shoulder. "I really wish I could go to her now."  
"I know John, I know. You want to help her. You need to." She kissed his temple. "Is there any chance you can take leave?"  
"I don't know." He lifted his head but kept holding her close. "There have to be enough doctors. I will request it though."  
She nodded. "You have to. And you've earned it. No one works harder than you."  
John gave her a little smile. "Maybe that's why they won't be happy to let me go."  
She laughed. "They'll let you go. They have to. You should ask first thing tomorrow." She pulled back and looked him in the eyes. "You want to stay here tonight? Just for company?"  
John nodded slowly. "That- that would be good."  
"Good." She kissed his cheek. "I think we could both use a cuddle."  
As soon as they were lying down, John felt himself relaxing in her arms. This was good, yes, even though it hadn't been what they had agreed earlier. Lying like this, without the "excuse" of sex, made it look a little like people in a relationship would do, and that was just what neither of them wanted... But right now he decided he had the right to put it out of his head and just enjoy the fact that he would be able to get some sleep after all. He snuggled a little closer.  
"Mary?" he mumbled.  
"Huh?" she answered, sleepily.  
"Don't get hurt while I'm away."  
"Okay," she muttered and snuggled closer.  
...  
"Yes, Captain Watson," the Colonel said. "I can understand your need to be with your family at a time like this. But...", the woman hesitated, "circumstances have arisen here that make a leave of absence impossible at this point in time."  
John frowned, a little taken aback. "What do you mean? I checked and it seemed there were still enough medics if I would leave... It wouldn't be long, anyway, just to check on my sister."  
The Colonel sighed. "Yes, that is not the issue. Had you not come to me, you would have been called in later today. There has been filed a complaint against you. For harassment."  
"What?" John stared at her.  
She nodded. "Yes. An accusation has been made that you have accessed medical files to use privileged information against another soldier."  
"Ah. I am a doctor, I do look at medical files... I mean... Who accused me?" John asked, not knowing what to say to avoid the wrong things.  
"At this point, your accuser will remain unnamed. But it has already been confirmed that you did, at a time you were off duty, access the medical history of a soldier who has not been a patient of yours."  
"I may have had a good reason," John answered uncomfortably.  
"And what reason is that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.  
"Er, something happened to him, and I was having a closer look to make sure that the one who did it would be punished," John answered, shifting on his chair as he realised that that wasn't his task at all.  
"And why have you suddenly taken it upon yourself to clear up old offences? I take it that in this particular case your interest is in the perpetrator rather than the supposed victim? Given your history..."  
John frowned. "So you know what I'm talking about."  
The Colonel nodded. "I realise you were... frustrated when the situation back then ended as it did. But trying to dig up old dirt, hurting fellow soldiers in the process, is not the way to fix that."  
John sighed. "I never intended to hurt anyone. I wanted to help, and let the victim know that back in London they're working on justice."  
"Be that as it may, I’ll to have to ask you to back off. And you cannot be granted a leave of absence while the investigation is ongoing."  
"I understand." John turned his gaze down.  
"I will keep you notified," she said. "You're dismissed."  
John sighed as he stepped out of the 'office'. He had hoped he would be relieved when he had made his request, that he could look forward to going home to clear up the mess there. Now he only had an extra concern.  
He had to hurry to get to his post in time and tried to put both Harry and the complaint out of his mind to focus on his work. In the evening, he went to look for Mary in the mess, and as he approached her, he slightly shook his head.  
Mary sighed as she saw him. "No luck?"  
"No," John answered grimly as he sat down next to her. "As long as they're investigating the complaint against me, I can't leave. God knows how long that will take."  
"What?" Mary almost shouted but quickly lowered her voice. "Someone's complained? Against you?"  
"Yes." He rubbed his face. "Don't tell anyone."  
"Of course not," she whispered. "But who? Why?"  
"One of Moran's victims, because I had had a look at their medical files. I've been told to back off, so now I'm probably not much use to Sherlock either."  
"I don't know. I think you're more than a source of information to him. With what he's getting up to, I think he might just need you to... be there... In case things get out if hand."  
John huffed. "But I'm not there, am I?"  
"You know what I mean. Someone to keep him grounded. To check in on him. Or to just listen."  
"To be honest, I care more about Harry needing someone like that right now," John said.  
"Of course. Is there anything I can do?"  
John shrugged. "It's sweet you want to help, but I'm afraid not."  
"I can be here for you," she said. "When you need a friend."  
He smiled. "Of course. And I'm grateful for that."  
"I'm just sorry I can't do any more for you." She reached over and put a hand on his shoulder.  
"It's fine. You're a great support and it's not your fault." He gave her hand a light squeeze, then stood up again.  
She looked up at him. "Do you want me to come over tonight?"  
John hesitated. "I think it's better if I spend the night alone. I'm not in the best mood and I don't want to work it out on you."  
She frowned, but didn't say anything as she nodded and offered him a small smile.  
...  
He hadn't thought it possible, but as John put on his laptop, his day became even worse.  
***  
To: John Watson  
Subject: Bad news.

It seems that the witness, maybe being too scared of Moran, will not be showing up after all. She has not returned to her home either and cannot be found. I therefore have no choice but to rejoin Moran. Not only if I hope to close the original case, but now to keep the young woman safe. When I cannot find her, all I can do is keep an eye on him in case he finds her.

S. Holmes  
***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: Bad news.

Damn, Sherlock, you can't be serious. After what he did to you last time? I can't imagine he'll be any happier to see you if he knows you helped her escape.

John  
***

To: John Watson  
Re: re: Bad news

He believes she escaped because of my incompetence, not because I wanted her to. I can easily convince him that I am looking for a second chance. I really have no choice if I want to find this woman again. Alive.

S.H.  
***

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Bad news

Can't you have the police find her and stay safe yourself?

John  
***  
Sherlock didn't answer, and it took hours for John to fall asleep, his mind constantly switching between worrying about Harry and about Sherlock.  
...  
A few days later, John had just had the official hearing and Mary came to meet him afterwards. He smiled as he saw here.  
"It should be alright. Just got a warning, and the Colonel told me that they will have a look at my request to take leave as soon as possible now," he told her.  
"Oh John," she cried out and hugged him. "That's wonderful news."  
He chuckled and hugged her back. "So glad I'll be out of your sight for a little while?"  
She laughed. "No. I'm glad that maybe you'll stop moping around. Want to celebrate tonight?"  
John smirked. "I'd love to."  
"Perfect. I got half a bottle of vodka from a mate, so we can celebrate in style."  
John grinned. "You and your mates. I guess I'd better not know why they like you that much and just enjoy the fact that they do."  
“Jealous, Doctor Watson?" she teased. "Getting possessive, are we?"  
"Of course not. I get vodka and a good night out of it. As long as you don't invite them..." John laughed.  
"No?" her smile turned a little wicked. "Not into group things?" She managed to keep it up for two seconds, then burst into laughter.   
John laughed along. "Naughty, Lt. Morstan. Well, I'll see you later."  
She nodded and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.  
When John entered his room, he decided to share the good news with Sherlock and check if he was alright. He hadn't heard from him since he said he'd return to Moran.  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Good news

Hi Sherlock,

I hope you didn't get yourself into too much danger. Did you see Moran again? Are you okay?  
I have good hopes that I can return home next week, be it only for a short while, to check on my sister. The victim I had investigated had filed a complaint against me for checking his medical files without his consent, but I got off with a warning. From now on I'll have to be more careful in my actions to help you with the case though.

John  
***

To: John Watson  
Re: Good news.

I am glad to hear it didn't get you into too much trouble. I doubt I'll be needing you to gather any more information for me. I have contacted Moran, letting him know I'm still interested in working for him, but have not received a reply.  
I will let you know.

S.H.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock checked himself in the mirror. Most of the bruises were fading, thanks to Watson's advice, but there was still some miscolouring around his eye and his ribs ached when he forgot to move carefully.  
But there was no putting it off. He had to get out and buy cigarettes. What had started as part of his cover with Moran, had once again turned into an addiction, especially in the days following the incident with the witness. She had not turned up and he had been forced to admit to himself that she was not going to. He should have made sure he knew how to find her, but he had been in too much of a hurry, worrying, rightfully so, that Moran was getting close.  
He cursed himself once again. It was not like him to lose track of such an important source. Interacting with Moran had been stressful and had clearly affected his abilities. He wished that he would never have to see the man again, but, as he had told Watson, he didn't really have a choice. On the other hand, if Moran had written him off as an incompetent fool, not worth his time, he might not get another chance.  
He winced a little as he put on his coat and scarf and then descended the stairs, heading for the small shop on the corner.  
"Thank you for your time," a familiar figure nodded at the shop keeper when Sherlock entered the shop. She turned around and winced as she saw him. "Was there finally someone who couldn't resist punching you, freak?"  
Sherlock scowled at her. "Piss off, Donovan. I'm not in the mood for your delightful banter."  
"No, I can see that. Try not to get in any more fist fights. It would be a shame if we had to arrest you." She gave him a derisive look and left the shop.  
Sherlock didn't even respond or look at her as she left.  
Once outside he quickly lit his cigarette and then checked his phone. Still no response from Moran. Maybe it was time he just gave up. But no. Giving up was not his style. So instead he headed down the street and found a cab. First he went to the pub where he had had his initial meeting with Moran, on the off chance that he'd be there. He didn't want to go to his flat, quite sure that such a thing would not be considered acceptable by his former 'boss'.  
His heart skipped a beat, whether from relief or fear he didn't know, as he recognised the familiar figure at a table in the corner.  
A smaller, dark haired man was facing him, and they were leaning rather close together. Then Moran pushed himself a little back, giving his companion a displeased look, and as he did so, Sherlock caught his eye.  
Sherlock smiled and nodded, deciding to pretend nothing bad had happened last time they saw each other. "Hey Moran," he said, as he walked over. "I was hoping I might catch you here."  
Moran pulled up his eyebrows. "Look what we've got there."  
Sherlock cringed a little as both men watched him intently. If he had miscalculated, this could end badly. But there was nothing to do now but go through with it, so he continued smiling. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, already pulling out a chair.  
During a fraction of a second, Moran flashed him a devilish grin. Then he was on his feet and pressed a quick kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Of course not! Sit down, please." He gently pushed Sherlock down in the chair next to his.  
Sherlock was about to introduce himself to the other man, when the latter jumped to his feet and stormed out of the pub. Sherlock looked up at Moran. "Did I interrupt something?"  
"Oh, no. I was pretty much finished with him," Moran answered, his smile turning into a glare. "What are you doing here?"  
"I thought you might have a job for me," Sherlock said, trying to sound confident.  
"And you forgot last time, or what? Need another beating? Not that your replacement was worth so much..." He nodded at the chair the other man had just left.  
"So, I've made one mistake in the time I've worked for you. Big deal." Sherlock huffed. "The way I figure is: I messed up and you... dealt with it. So why not just move on? I thought we had a pretty good thing going."  
Moran snorted. "So you still don't know your place. You still think you can make decisions about these things."  
Sherlock cringed. "Not a decision. Just... suggestions."  
"Let's go to my place. We shouldn't discuss this in public," Moran said.  
Sherlock hesitated a moment, then smiled. "Sure."  
"Oh, no need to look so happy," Moran mumbled in his ear, before he got up and went out before Sherlock.  
Sherlock shivered at the words and closeness. He had gotten what he wanted, but at what price?  
Moran didn't say a word as they drove to his flat. Once there, he placed a hand in Sherlock's neck to push him forward through the door.  
Sherlock stumbled over the threshold, keeping his head down, dreading what kind of extra punishment Moran had in store for him.  
Moran opened another door for him and pushed him further into the bedroom. "Time to teach you a lesson, don't you think?"  
"Yes, Boss," Sherlock muttered, grateful that he had taken at least some precautions, expecting this outcome to be quite possible. He should be loose enough to take Moran without any damage. He hoped.  
"Undress," Moran said coldly, opening his own belt.  
Sherlock nodded and did as he was told, soon standing completely naked in front of Moran, letting just a hint of his trepidation show.  
"On your knees." Moran nodded at the bed, then just stripped off his trousers, pants and socks and picked up his belt again when he was finished.  
Sherlock stared at the belt in his hand. He wanted to protest, but his voice seemed to have disappeared. So he crawled onto the bed, settling on his hands and knees, facing away from Moran. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply.  
The belt came down hard on his back, and then another time. Sherlock didn't have the chance to even process the pain properly as his head was already pushed further down and his wrists were bound to the headboard above him with the belt. Moran leaned over and bit down on Sherlock's shoulder, just once and not hard enough to leave a wound, then let out a low chuckle. "Oh, Stevenson, you fool."  
Sherlock was still gasping from the pain. Finding himself bound and at this man's mercy was what he had feared the most when coming here. But now there was nothing to do but stay in character. Though at the moment, there wasn't that much difference between Thomas Stevenson's and Sherlock's own reactions. "Please..." he whispered. "Don't hurt me..."  
"Why not?" Moran asked, actually sounding interested. "Why don't you try and convince me?"  
"You already dealt with me after my mistake. I came back to work for you... Why hurt me?"  
"Go on."  
"I don't know..." Sherlock was panicking slightly. "Just don't... Please."  
"Pathetic," Moran spat, pulling Sherlock's head back by his hair and slapping him with his other hand.  
Sherlock cried out, more in surprise than pain. "I... I'm sorry," he muttered as he felt his cheek sting.  
"Shut up," Moran hissed, pushing him back down and settling behind his arse. There was a sound of ripping a foil and then a short pause as Moran put on the condom, and then, without warning, he grabbed Sherlock's hips and pushed in at once.  
Sherlock clenched his jaws together, willing himself to not scream. But he could not suppress a pained grunt as he was filled and stretched beyond anything he had experienced in close to a decade. He managed to distract himself a little from the pain by making a mental note of how he had been correct in his assumptions about Moran's... techniques.  
Moran leaned over to Sherlock's ear. "You realise you're not worthy of this, do you? That it's more than you ever deserve?" He didn't wait for a reaction and started thrusting hard and fast, his nails digging into Sherlock's hips.  
"Yes..." Sherlock fumbled for the right word. "... Boss..."  
Moran grunted and continued fucking him, seemingly forgetting everything else for now.  
Sherlock forced his muscles to relax and gradually the pain became bearable. He considered feigning pleasure, but decided against it, figuring that Moran probably couldn't care less if his partner was getting anything out of it.  
Once Moran had come, he stayed inside Sherlock for a while longer, before abruptly pulling out and getting up. He picked Sherlock’s own belt up from the floor and hit his back again.  
Sherlock was prepared for it this time and nothing but a muffled groan escaped him.  
"Hmm," Moran said, bending to put on his pants and leaving Sherlock's hands uncomfortably bound above his head. "At least you're learning and getting tougher. Maybe you can prove you have some use after all," he mused.  
"Yes, Boss," Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth.  
"You will stay here, where I can keep an eye on you," Moran said, fastening his trousers. Then he walked closer to where Sherlock's head was resting on the mattress and looked thoughtfully at his bound hands. "Are you clever enough not to try to run?"  
Sherlock nodded. "I came here of my own free will, didn't I? Why would I want to run?"  
Moran smiled. "Some people change their minds quite a lot." He loosened the belt around Sherlock's wrists and put it back in the loops of his trousers, without looking back at Sherlock.  
Sherlock winced as he got off the bed. "Yeah? Well I'm not most people."  
"I didn't give you permission to get up," Moran said, his back still turned to Sherlock.  
Sherlock sat down a little too quickly and almost yelped. "Sor... Sorry, Boss."  
"Can you cook?" Moran asked.  
Sherlock shrugged. "A bit. Basic stuff."  
"Good. I'm hungry."  
Sherlock nodded, but otherwise didn't move. "Okay."  
"Maybe I'm having too much faith in you if I assume you are not too stupid to find the kitchen?" Moran turned around and pulled up his eyebrows.  
Sherlock matched his expression. "Oh. So I can get up now?"  
Moran chuckled for a moment, then slapped him. "Do as I tell you. Don't get clever."  
Sherlock didn't even flinch this time but got up and went to the kitchen. After a quick look through the fridge and cupboards he decided to make spaghetti with a spicy tomato sauce.  
After a while, Moran came to stand behind Sherlock, watching what he was doing. "Where's the meat?" he asked, frowning.  
Sherlock glanced at him. "It's a vegetarian recipe. I can cook some bacon for you if you want."  
"Better hurry, yes," Moran said with a snort. "Vegetarian."  
Sherlock turned to hide his smile as he got out a frying pan and got started on the bacon.  
"A good beating, that's what they need," Moran mumbled as he walked out of the kitchen and waited for the meal.  
Sherlock chuckled softly as he finished cooking.  
"What's so funny?" Moran asked from the next room.  
"Nothing," Sherlock answered. "Where do you want to eat? At the table or in front of the telly?"  
"Table," Moran answered. "You can eat something too if you want. You're no use if you faint."  
Sherlock smiled to himself. "Thanks, Boss." He turned off the stove and began setting the table.  
Once Sherlock had brought him his plate, Moran started eating silently. Sherlock sat down and picked at his food. He wanted to talk. To see if he could learn something new. But he somehow felt it wouldn't do to speak first. Moran was in an odd mood tonight and he couldn't risk provoking him.  
Suddenly Moran looked up at him. "Why did you make something you don't like yourself?"  
"I do like it," Sherlock said hurriedly. "I'm just not very hungry."  
"Hm," Moran said, focusing on his food again.  
"Have you... found her... that woman?" Sherlock asked. Stevenson would want to know if his mistake had been fixed and he might as well be blunt about it.  
Moran snorted. "No. If you do something, you do it well. Also if it's messing up."  
Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the remark. "Sorry."  
"Sorry doesn't help anything. It was an important job."  
"I know. I screwed up. I am very grateful you're giving me a second chance. If you want I can go looking for her. Her friends didn't see me, I might get something out of them..."  
"Maybe. Tonight we're staying in though," Moran said.  
Sherlock nodded, pondering the meaning of the statement. Moran wanted him to stay. That probably meant more sex and some form of punishment. He fought down the impulse to make an excuse and get the hell out of there, knowing that he might not get a second chance.  
"Sounds good," he said.  
"Does it?" Moran smirked, finishing his food.  
Sherlock considered for a moment. He couldn't overdo it, or Moran might get suspicious. So he shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."  
Moran left his plate and went to get his laptop.  
Sherlock cleared the table and then went out onto the balcony to smoke. He really wanted to see what Moran was doing or at least try and see his password, but now was not the time, his position still too uncertain.  
"Stevenson!" Moran called after a while.  
Sherlock sighed and tossed the cigarette he had just lit. "Yes Boss?" he said as he walked back into the flat.  
"We have work tomorrow," Moran announced. "Time to go to bed."  
Sherlock gaped at him. "You actually want me to... stay?"  
Moran looked at him as if he had said something silly. "I told you I'd keep an eye on you, didn't I? As long as you're here, you can't ruin things elsewhere."  
"Right," Sherlock attempted a cheeky grin.  
Moran waved an arm in the direction of the bedroom.  
Sherlock followed obediently, once again wondering what exactly he'd gotten himself into.  
"You can keep your clothes on this time. I don't care," Moran said, while he was undressing himself. "Just bring me off quickly so I can sleep."  
Sherlock repressed a relieved sigh as he stripped down to pants and t-shirt, getting a condom out of the pocket before discarding his jeans. He waited for Moran to settle on the bed, and then stroked him hard before rolling the condom on. Then, remembering his preference, he bent down and immediately began sucking him without any kind of build-up or teasing. Once again, Moran's hand came down to pull his hair, and he thrust his hips up to fuck Sherlock's mouth.  
Sherlock held still, letting Moran do most of the work, sucking hard when he could, hoping to finish him fast.  
When Moran had come with a loud grunt, he didn't even check Sherlock's state and just rolled onto his side, almost kicking Sherlock. "Sofa," he mumbled.  
Sherlock dodged his foot and gratefully retreated to the sofa for a sleepless night. He wished he had gotten a new phone so he could send John an update. He didn't dare attempt to use Moran's laptop. Not yet.  
...  
Over the next week, they fell into a kind of routine. Moran would demand that Sherlock sucked him in the evening when he went to bed, and then again in the morning before he got up. He'd also fuck him once during the day, usually tying him up, always hitting him with his belt or hands. Sherlock would cook and do the dishes, and Moran would bring him on various minor jobs. There was a fair amount of verbal abuse and humiliation and Sherlock did earn himself a very painful slap when he 'spoke up' at a meeting with some contacts, though Moran did save that for when they were alone.  
As the days passed, Sherlock found that the situation became more and more bearable. Knowing what to expect made it easier, and he was often able to detach from the situation and just run on autopilot. He was gaining invaluable insight into Moran's personality and was pretty certain that if the girl resurfaced, he would know.  
Twice during the week, Moran would tell him to get the hell out for a couple of hours. Sherlock assumed it had something to do with the illusive employer, and used the time to return to Baker Street for clean clothes and checking his email. He'd write to John, but nothing specific. Just that he was once again working for Moran and there was no sign of the witness yet. He doubted John would approve of his current methods.  
On his second trip there was an answer from John, telling him that he had gotten his leave and would be in London over the weekend. And would Sherlock perhaps like to meet? Sherlock hesitated but then agreed, suggesting a time and place. He regretted not being able to maintain the close exchange these days, and a meeting might give him a chance to process his findings through explaining them to John.  
Unfortunately, there was also a message from Mycroft, demanding that he immediately sever all contact with Moran or 'steps would be taken'. He didn't even dignify it with a response.  
One morning, Moran seemed rather lazy. Of course there had been the usual morning blow job, but now he was just lying in the sofa, rather than dragging Stevenson along to a job or a meeting.  
"Say," he said suddenly to Sherlock, who was smoking. "You could solve this."  
Sherlock took a final drag, tossed his cigarette and came over. "Yeah, Boss?" he asked, rather curious about what had caused this change in Moran's mood.  
"Yes." Moran was looking alarmingly thoughtful. "You were an addict. What exactly did you use?"  
Sherlock tensed. He did not like the direction this was taking. "Mainly coke. But when it was really bad, I'd take practically anything I could get my hands on."  
Moran nodded. "Perfect. So you could distinguish the good stuff from the bad stuff, right? You can't only have had cheap drugs if you got your hands on coke regularly..."  
"Sure," Sherlock said. "If I could..." He almost said 'have access to a lab', but stopped himself in time by biting his tongue. His guard seemed to be slipping these days. This was not the first time he had almost misspoken. "If I still did drugs," he hurriedly corrected himself, "I'd be able to tell almost instantly."  
A gleam appeared in Moran's eyes. "Why did you quit?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "Three ODs in under two months. A friend told me that if I didn't quit, it would most likely kill me. For once I listened."  
Moran nodded slowly. "We could control that you didn't get too much."  
Sherlock took a step back. "Any amount would be too much. I'm not going down that road again."  
"Oh, come on. I understand there are disadvantages. It's expensive, not always easy to come by... But think of how good it made you feel. And it could just be a one time thing. Indulging yourself, just now, to test some stuff. No one would die from that."  
"You've obviously never been hooked," Sherlock snapped, feeling too much on edge to watch his tone. "When it was bad, there was no 'feeling good' about it. Just trying to not feel like shit. And guess what. I still did."  
Moran's fist flew out and he looked down on Sherlock, eyes narrowed. "It's not like we can step into a lab and for this particular batch it does matter whether it's quality. I don't need you to volunteer to get it into your system."  
Sherlock cringed. "Force me and the results would be useless to you. If I don't volunteer, how can you trust my words? You'd never know if I was being truthful about the quality and effects."  
There was another forceful meeting between Moran's fist and Sherlock's cheekbone. "Fool," he spat, kicking his leg with a heavy boot. "As if we don't have ways to get the truth out of people. Do you really want it to come to that? Because I can give you that. I can give you all the pain in the world and even the high won't make it bearable."  
Sherlock rubbed his aching cheek. "No," he said, sounding a lot less assertive than he had intended to. "I won't do it. Not that."  
The next hit came with a sound smack. "Then what use are you after all?" Moran growled, shaking him and then pushing him against the wall so his skull hit it hard.  
Sherlock gasped as the impact send a flash of pain through his entire skull.  
Moran planted his knee in his lower stomach. "I give you work, let you eat and sleep here. I hope you realise how much you owe me, you bastard." He turned, but only to thrust his elbow in Sherlock's face.  
Sherlock collapsed in a heap on the floor, dazed and gasping. "I... I am sorry."  
"And what good is that to me?" Moran looked down on him with a disgusted expression.    
Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear it. "I... don't know?" He was definitely concussed. Badly this time. He had to stop this. To get away somehow. "I'll do it. Please stop. I'll do it," he pleaded.  
Moran snorted. "Get yourself sorted out."  
"Yes, Boss." Sherlock tried to get up, but all he could manage at the moment was to sit up, leaning against the wall.  
Moran shook his head, spat at him and walked out of the room.  
Sherlock sat for a long while, then slowly crawled to the sofa and somehow managed to get on it. He shouldn't sleep. Not like this, without anyone to watch over him. He struggled to sit up and then just stared into space trying to clear his mind. The time had come to get out of this before it went too far. Some might say it already had.  
Sherlock felt a burning sense of shame when he realised that, had he had the option, he'd probably gladly have called Mycroft and asked to be picked up.  
He supposed that could be easily handled, actually. All he had to do was make his way to the balcony in his current state and agents would be there to pick him up in thirty minutes or less.  
He had made up his mind and was trying to gather the strength to stand,  when he realised what would happen if Mycroft's men showed up at the flat while Moran was still there.  
A fight would be inevitable. Casualties very probable. He could get caught in the crossfire. Or be taken as a hostage. Moran would most likely be killed, which would solve a lot of problems. But it would also lead to open war between Mycroft and Moran's elusive employer.  
He could not risk that. So he would have to get out on his own.  
But not yet. He needed rest. First thing in the morning. Even though he couldn't sleep, he could relax. Give his body and mind time to recover.  
Tomorrow... Something about tomorrow. Oh yes... He was meeting John tomorrow. He let out a deep, relieved sigh. John would help him.


	9. Chapter 9

John smiled at his laptop. Sherlock's response to the question if they could meet hadn't been overly enthusiastic, but then that just wasn't part of Sherlock's character unless it concerned crimes and murders. It was good to at least have something to look forward to in London. Even with Sherlock not being the easiest person to have around, he suspected that this meeting would go a lot friendlier than the one he would have with his sister. He'd rather not think of that. Harry would be anything but happy to see him, or at least tell him so with a lot of curses and insults, and the next moment she could be sobbing in his arms. Sherlock seemed a lot more stable. John would need that after dealing with Harry.  
After sending a short answer to Sherlock that he was looking forward to seeing him, he shut his laptop. Mary would be here within minutes, as they had agreed to meet in his room this evening. He would only leave the next day, in the late afternoon, but that meant that if they wanted a proper goodbye, they could only get to it now.  
Just then there was a knock on the door and Mary called: "Are you decent?"  
"Decent enough," John answered, opening the door for her.  
She grinned. "Damn it. I can leave and come back when you're not."  
John chuckled. "It's only fair. You still look more than decent, too."  
"As always," she said smugly and pulled him into a kiss. "You look happy."  
"Of course, you're around," he grinned. "Besides, it turns out I'll meet someone else in London too, someone who won't be mad at me for keeping them off the booze."  
She grinned. "You've got a date?"  
"Well, not in the 'date' sense, but..." He smiled. "Let's call it a meeting."  
"Oh." She smirked at him. "Sherlock?"  
"Of course. Who else is there back home?" John asked.  
"I don't really know, do I? There's that Mike fellow, right?"  
John shrugged. "He was a study mate. It's been ages since I saw him. I'm closer to a few others, but they all have their own lives and certainly couldn't meet on such short notice. It all faded a bit with coming here." John's face had gone more earnest.  
"I know," she said, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. "It happens to a lot of us. It's like we're living in an entirely different world."  
John nodded. "It seems like Sherlock understands more than most, too. I guess that that's why I'm looking forward to meeting him. He knows an entirely different battlefield, but still that makes his world more similar to ours than most people's."  
"And you'd really like to see if he's quite as remarkable in real life as he is over the computer?" she teased.  
"Oh, shut up," he smiled. "You know it's always a bit different."  
She laughed. "No, I don't. I've never hooked up with anyone I met online."  
"Neither have I, but I can just imagine that it's different. After all it's just more spontaneous to talk with someone who is around than to send emails. Or maybe that's just because you're the one around." He grinned at her.  
"Yes. I do tend to be... spontaneous." She pulled him down for a kiss. "I'm going to miss you."  
"It's not that long," John said, stroking her face. "You won't even notice I'm gone. And remember to keep your promise."  
She nodded. "Not to get hurt. That goes for you too, you know. You may not be in any danger of being blown up, but there are other ways of getting hurt."  
John frowned. "I'm really not that close to him that he'd be able to hurt me."  
She snorted. "I wasn't talking about him. Interesting though that you'd think so."  
"Oh." John pulled a face. "Yeah, well, I'm used to Harry's behaviour. It hurts, but it's sort of... normal."  
She pulled him into a hug. "It'll be fine. You are a good man John. You'll be able to help her."  
"I hope. At least I'll be there to do what I can." He kissed her softly. "That's enough talking about me, don't you think?"  
She nodded. "Agreed." Then she spun them around and threw him down on the bed, laughing as she followed.  
...  
In the morning, John pushed Mary off him and softly shook her shoulder. "Mary. You should go," he said gently.  
Mary yawned and snuggled closer. "Why?" she muttered sleepily.  
"Your squad's leaving soon. Better not be late."  
She groaned. "I wish I could be there to see you off."  
"I know." He propped his head up on his elbow to look at her.   
She smiled up at him and then gave him a quick kiss before getting out of bed. "Take care, Watson," she said, as she began getting dressed. "And play nice with your little friend."  
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, be a good girl, Morstan. I'll come find you as soon as I'm back."  
"Not if I find you first." She kissed him again and left at a run.  
John chuckled and got up to get dressed.  
...  
After his work for the day was finished, John hurried through the corridors to his room to get his papers and belongings.  
"Watson!" he heard behind him, and he sighed as he recognized the voice. He didn't have time for this, but he turned around. "Yes?"  
Miller walked up to him, not stopping until he was well into John's personal space. "How did you do it, Watson? Did you buy them off?" he snarled. "Or was that handled by a 'friend'? Perhaps the same friend who got Moran's charges dropped?"  
"What? What are you talking about?" John asked, confused.  
"Getting those charges dropped. You snooped in my personal files. You had no business doing that. Unless of course you're working with Moran. Trying to get to me somehow." Miller placed a hand on John's chest and pushed him backwards.  
John sighed and stepped back to where he stood before. "Miller, calm down. I got my charges dropped because I explained that I did what I did because I was concerned about you. There's really no need to be ashamed about what happened. I know it wasn't your fault. But don't blame me, either."  
"Nothing to be 'concerned' about," Miller snarled. "You just mind your own fucking business from now on."  
"Yeah, alright." John brought his hands up in a calming motion. "Now, if you don't mind, I don't have much time."  
Miller frowned. "Got somewhere you need to be Watson? Off to report to Moran perhaps?"  
"Come on, Miller. We may not like each other, but I'm on your side, not Moran's. Believe me."  
"Why should I?" the man spat and then turned around and stalked off.  
John shook his head sadly, then hurried off to his room.  
...  
After the short helicopter flight to the airport and the longer plane flight, John was happy he hadn't planned anything right away. Once he had checked in at the hotel and unpacked the necessary stuff, he dropped on the bed. He could use a nap. Only now he fully realised that he would have to face Harry in the morning. Who knew what state she was in? Of course, there was a slightly bigger chance that she would be more or less sober in the morning. He just wasn't sure that would make her easier to talk with. As long as Clara had been around, Harry had been more balanced and was easier to calm down, but he could imagine that Clara's departure had brought her back to how she was, or even worse.   
Unfortunately, in the morning he noticed soon enough that he had been right. At first, his sister acted rather civilised, and she wasn't as suspicious about John's visit as he had feared. They exchanged a few stories about how things had been going, but she didn't even mention Clara. If the latter hadn't told John about their separation, she could as well have gone off to the shop and come in later. Harry sure didn't plan to tell her brother about the actual situation.  
Of course it went wrong as soon as Harry wanted to pour them a drink. John tried carefully to bring her alcohol-free options, what with it being early on the day, but as soon as he told her not to drink, the screaming started. What kind of a brother he was, disappearing for ages and then telling her how to live her life. What did he care anyway? He was off to better places, leaving her all alone. It went on and on, trying to make him feel even guiltier than he already did, and then the insults kept coming.  
All in all, not exactly a success.  
...  
Now, he was sitting on Clara's sofa. Would Harry know he was here, she'd probably never talk to him again.  
"I'm going back tomorrow," he said after he had told her about the visit. "Maybe she's calmed down a bit and can get used to the idea that I'm here." He wasn't sure he believed his own words. "I need to do something, right?"  
"It's so good of you to try," Clara said, looking at her hands, rubbing absentmindedly at the white mark where her ring used to be. "But I can't keep hoping anymore. I have to move on."  
"I know," John nodded. "That's not what I'm saying. I mean, the way she was going there? I really understand you can't cope with that every day. You're brave, and you have been so good to her. I really don't blame you, Clara."  
"I do," Clara said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I feel like I've failed her. Like there was something I could have done differently. Better."  
John wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Oh Clara. She's always been good at giving everyone a hard time. It really isn't your fault." He gave her a hug. "I'm really sorry."  
"Me too. I mean... I can walk away. But she is your sister."  
John nodded. "She blames me for walking away, too. If you heard her, you'd think I'm the worst brother anyone can have. Just for going to Afghanistan alone." He sighed. "The thing is, it's not that she doesn't love us. I think she just forgets that she does, while she's yelling."  
"I think she's terrified of losing us. So she pushes us away." She sighed. "Yes, I know... It doesn't make sense..."   
"But it happens a lot. I know," John sighed.  
Clara sobbed. "I'm sorry. It's not fair to you... I promised myself I wouldn't do this..." She straightened up and wiped angrily at her eyes. "Let's talk about something else. What's happening in your life? Anyone special?"  
John gave her shoulder a small squeeze. "I really don't mind. You need to talk about it, so I'm happy I can at least be of help to you, if not to Harry." He cleared his throat. "Hm, what can I tell? You know how it is, we don't get that much time off, and there are plenty of other things to worry about, unfortunately."  
"Oh, come on, John. I know you. You're always seeing a girl or two. There must be someone over there. Perhaps a pretty nurse?" she teased.  
He grinned. "Yes, well, there was a nurse, but that didn't mean much. Lasted only a few days, it was just a bit of fun. And there's this very nice lieutenant, but she's a really good friend. Getting in a real relationship with her, I'd only risk ruining that friendship, so..." He shrugged. "We're just friends."  
"Just friends?" she grinned at him. "Then why are you blushing?"  
"I'm not!" John protested, blushing more fiercely.  
Clara laughed. "You're shagging her, aren't you? You dog, you."  
"She proposed it! And it works. So why wouldn't we?" He crossed his arms in mock defence.  
"Good for you, John." She continued giggling. "I bet it makes it a lot easier for both of you. Being over there, I mean."  
"It helps against the loneliness," he nodded.  
"And she's a friend too? Seems like you got it all covered."  
John chuckled. "Yeah, I'm good. Except that I managed to get a complaint from another lieutenant, but well..."  
"A complaint? You?" She frowned. "I find that hard to believe."  
He shrugged. "I was actually trying to help someone, but he didn't take it that way. I got off with just a warning though. Nothing to worry about."  
"That I can imagine," she said. "It seems like you're always trying to help somebody."  
He smiled. "They always seem to need help, so someone has to do it."  
"And someone is always Doctor John Watson, right?"  
"Not always. Just... often, apparently."  
She studied him. "There's more?"  
He shrugged. "I was actually helping someone else with helping this other guy. I can't tell you much about it, but it's a rather serious case, and there's this detective who is trying to solve it."  
"A detective? Like a 'private detective'?"  
"Yeah. He calls himself a consulting detective, actually," John answered.  
"Never heard of one of those before. What does he do?"  
"He helps the police. Apparently he's more clever than most of them - at least, he is convinced he is."  
Clara snorted. "Sounds interesting. How did you get to work with him?"  
John started telling her about how he had met Sherlock, without filling in too much of the details. It was no use to get her involved in the Moran case, and for some reason she already thought the story about him meeting a man on the internet interesting enough. He wondered what it was with her and Mary, always reading more in it than there actually was.  
After cooking together and enjoying a nice dinner, John promised Clara to come for a visit as soon as he could take another leave and left only after a few more hugs.  
…  
The next day, John got up earlier than necessary, partly because he was used to the early hours in the army, but also because he was excited. It was ridiculous, of course - he was only meeting a friend for lunch, and it wasn't like he had never seen Sherlock before as they had Skyped. Still, it felt different. As if Sherlock would only now become 'real', even if he was the person he had been talking the most to in the last few weeks, apart from Mary.  
He arrived a little early at the restaurant where they had agreed to meet, and decided not to go inside right away. It might be easier for Sherlock to spot him that way, since the restaurant seemed rather busy.  
After about ten minutes, it dawned on him that maybe Sherlock was already there. As the waiter led him to their table, it became clear that that wasn't the case. Still, the reservation had been on Holmes' name, so he was reassured that Sherlock would find him eventually. John ordered a drink and told the friendly waiter that he wouldn't order his food before his friend arrived. The waiter nodded and went away.  
Twenty minutes after the appointed time, John glanced at his watch. Ah well, London traffic. And maybe Sherlock wasn't the most punctual kind of guy anyway. After seeing only a small part of the detective's flat through the webcam, he wouldn't be surprised he was one of the kind that only showed up thirty minutes late just because they couldn't be bothered to watch their clocks. And if he wasn't there then, he'd send him a text to remind him.  
Yet, there was no answer to the text either, not even twenty minutes after John had sent it. Great. So the Great Detective didn't think him important enough to remember the meeting, or he did remember and wasn't interested enough to come and see him. Of course that was fine. Sure, Sherlock wasn't important enough to get upset about that. John would just order his food and hope that the guy would show up eventually, preferably with a good excuse. He still believed that that would happen.  
But by the time he had finished his burger - a proper, greasy burger, not the shit they served in the army - John was seriously pissed off. Sherlock really hadn't come. Hadn't even called to cancel the whole thing. He just let John sit here for hours, waiting for him, until eventually he'd understand that Sherlock wouldn't make time for him, and there went his own precious time in London.  He could have gone to see some of his favourite places instead. But no, that prat had agreed to meet, so what did good loyal Watson do? John cursed internally.  
Probably Sherlock had just been using him, as he had been helpful before, and thought to soothe him with telling him they could meet. He wouldn't put it past the manipulative bastard. To say he had even let him talk to Mary...  
So far for one of the only friendships he had right now, he supposed. He had believed they would have fun, that he could at least talk to someone... well, not normal, but without all the issues Harry had. Now it was already time to start travelling her way, and he had only gotten more tense waiting here. Brilliant, just brilliant.   
...  
Fuck shit fuckety bugger fuck, the most articulate thought in John's mind went that evening when he sat in a cab to the airport. Why on earth had he even come here? Why had he even taken leave for that ungrateful alcoholic monster he called his sister? Why did he even care if she drowned in the booze if all she could tell him was that he could go to hell? If, whenever she saw him, she started screaming that she didn't need anyone's help, that she was perfectly able to take care of herself and to put a limit on the amount she drank, and all that while it was clear enough she didn't believe it herself? She just never was reasonable. Never. And there was nothing, not even meetings with people who didn't show up, that frustrated John as much as standing on the sideline and watching as everything went to hell with Harry. Combined with certain people not showing up in certain restaurants, it was enough to make his mind almost explode with rage.  
He touched the spot on his cheek where Harry had hit him, actually hit her only brother. It didn't hurt, at least not physically. That wasn't the point. He had come all the way here to check on her, to make things right, but that had been how she thanked him. She just didn't want things to take a better direction. She basked in the drama, the attention, right up to the moment when she realised she had ended up alone and then she'd only drink more to forget that there had ever been someone to help her and she had scared them away.  
Okay, it had been a mistake to bring up Clara. It had been too obvious that he had been talking to her, and that was the point where Harry had yelled that he betrayed her, that everyone was conspiring against her, that he didn't care about her, so why didn't he go back to his little friends in Afghanistan to play war games and leave her the fuck alone.  
He had been patient, really. He needed to keep telling that to himself. Otherwise he'd only feel guilty about what he had called her, about losing his temper then and start a yelling round of himself until Harry was sobbing and called him the most horrible person in the world. After that, he had left. It had taken an hour and a pint to cool down enough to call Clara and tell her how much worse he had made things.  
Fuck, if only there had been one nice memory to this day, one thing he could cling to thanks to Sherlock being witty or whatever… But no. Today he was all on his own and everyone expected him to solve all the shit because he was John Watson and he didn't mind helping people.  
On the plane there was no way he could hold back the tears of frustration, anger and fear of what would become of his sister. He could only wish people minded their own business and didn't look his way.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock had managed to stay awake, but at the same time relaxed enough for his body and especially his head to recover, so that early in the morning he was able to get to his feet and stagger to the door without making enough noise to wake Moran up.  
Down on the street, he tried as best he could to avoid any of Mycroft's cameras. Not an easy task, since his brother had become almost obsessive in his quest to watch Moran's every move. He found a cab and after a moment’s hesitation told it to take him to Baker Street. He was meeting John for lunch, so he had plenty of time to prepare. To get cleaned up and tend to his bruises, so he wouldn't look a complete mess.  
He did not want their conversation being about John's concern for him and his dealings with Moran. Especially not since all that was definitely over. He was not going anywhere near the man. Even without Jane Levington, he probably had enough to help Mycroft build a proper case. And there was no reason to believe that the abuse Mycroft's agent had suffered prior to his death had been anything but Moran acting on his sadistic tendencies. So whatever sordid state secret Mycroft was worried about, had probably been taken to the grave by the unfortunate man.  
He leaned heavily on the wall as he ascended the stairs to his flat. It was all he could do to keep standing as he showered. His head was pounding and his vision slightly blurred. And it seems like every single nerve in his body had some messages of pain it needed to urgently deliver to his brain.  
He was drying his hair, when he sensed a disturbance somewhere in the flat. The shift of air indicating a door being opened. The sole of a shoe scraping over the threshold as someone, unaccustomed with the flat, entered. His blood ran cold. Had Moran somehow followed him? Had he discovered his true identity and now come to kill him? He looked around the bathroom for anything he could possibly use as a weapon, when a familiar voice reached him.  
"Sherlock? Are you in the bathroom?"  
Sherlock sighed. Lestrade might not be the person he most wanted to see right now, but he was a hell of a lot better than Moran. He put on his robe and checked himself in the mirror. He looked like he'd been hit by a car. Maybe he could tell the DI that that was what had happened to him. But as he entered the living room, he knew this wasn't going to work. Not only was Lestrade accompanied by two suited men who had 'government crony' written all over them, but next to him, looking uncharacteristically not-smug, was Sherlock's brother.  
"Piss off, My..." he began to say, but then he staggered as a wave of nausea coursed through him.  
Lestrade grabbed his arm and helped him to a chair. "Easy. Are you alright?" He looked worried.  
Mycroft was slowly shaking his head. "Oh brother. Why don't you ever listen to me?"  
Sherlock tried to glare at Mycroft. But his brother was backlighted by the morning sun hitting the window. The light made another stab of pain shoot through his head and he winced. "I'm fine," he muttered.  
"Look at you, Sherlock. You're anything but fine," Lestrade said softly.  
"Why did you go back to Moran?" Mycroft asked.  
Sherlock shook his head to clear it, but it only made things worse. "The... the case... There is... a... witness."  
Mycroft frowned. "A witness of what?"  
"Your agent... getting killed." Sherlock kept his eyes closed. It helped a little. "She saw Moran do it. She'll be able to tell us if the man was forced to talk or not. If I can find her again."  
"Well, you're not going anywhere now." Lestrade looked at Mycroft, who nodded.  
"What you need now is rest, and a doctor. Williams and Johnson here will make sure you don't leave the flat."  
"I'm fine..." Sherlock muttered. "And I'm meeting someone... for lunch."  
Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged an alarmed glance.  
"Who are you meeting?" Mycroft asked.  
"A..." Sherlock hesitated. He didn't want Mycroft to come after John as a source of information. Or just to 'check' on him on behalf of his baby brother. "Just... a friend," he muttered.  
"A friend," Lestrade repeated.  
Now Mycroft looked seriously alarmed. "Sherlock, no. We can't let you return to Moran, or whatever suspect you have found that is even worse. Absolutely no way."  
"It's not like that..." Sherlock sighed. "It's just a friend."  
"You're in no state to go anywhere, Sherlock. Don't you see that?" Lestrade asked, a little exasperated.  
"Who is that friend?" Mycroft asked urgently.  
"Leave him, Mycroft. I think he just really needs rest," Lestrade said quietly.  
"I'm fine," Sherlock protested again and tried to get up. "And it's none of your business who my friends are."  
"It is, certainly under these circumstances," Mycroft said, sternly pushing him back in the chair.  
"Just take some rest, Sherlock," Lestrade tried.  
"I don't need rest. I need to talk to..." He bit his lip. This was not good. His head was fuzzy and his guard was down. He needed to get away from them, before he said more. “... my friend," he finished lamely.  
"Do you think we can bring him to bed?" Lestrade asked.  
"He shouldn't sleep like this," Mycroft said. "We'll just wait for the doctor and see what he says. Keep an eye on him. I can't stay long."  
Lestrade nodded.  
...  
"I'm fine," Sherlock said, for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. The doctor had just finished examining him and was about to withdraw to talk to Lestrade. He knew what the verdict would be. He was not fine and they would not let him go. Time was running out. He was already late for his meeting with John. If he could catch a cab right now, he could probably still get there before John gave up and left, but that was not going to happen.  
It took a while before Lestrade returned to him, after he had been talking with the doctor in the kitchen.  
"Sherlock?" Sherlock's eyes were unfocused, but he turned his gaze up to Lestrade. "Listen, we are going to bring you to the hospital. Just for observation, you'll be fine. At least if you don't do too many stupid things. So now don't struggle, alright? Did you get another concussion lately? Can you remember what happened?"  
"Of course I remember," Sherlock snapped. "I hit my head on a fist. And an elbow. And there might have been a wall involved too."  
Lestrade frowned. "And it wasn't the first time he did that to you, right?"  
Sherlock sighed. "No," he muttered.  
"I can't fathom why you went back after that. Yes, a case, but Sherlock... It's not like you can solve any more cases after he's killed you!" Lestrade looked frustrated.  
"But he didn't kill me, did he? If he had tried, don't you think I would have defended myself? I'm not exactly helpless, you know."  
Lestrade looked at the consulting detective, sitting in a chair and hardly able to get up, but he didn't answer. "Mycroft's car will arrive in a minute."  
Sherlock huffed. "I'm not going anywhere."  
"You're going to the hospital."  
"There's no need. There's nothing wrong with me," he protested. But he knew it was useless. "Do me a favour?" he asked, in a resigned tone of voice.  
"Depends on what it is," Lestrade said.  
"My laptop. I must have it with me. And the charger."  
Lestrade hesitated. "Alright, but only if you use it for relaxation, not for work. And if they tell you to turn it off, you stay away from it."  
"Whatever." Sherlock closed his eyes, suddenly feeling very tired.  
Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't fall asleep."  
Sherlock huffed but forced his eyes open.  
...  
It was almost two hours before the doctors and nurses were done with him. They were unusually thorough and, despite his protests, checked him for drugs as well as signs of sexual assault.  
When they finally left him alone, his body was screaming for a cigarette. His laptop was nowhere in sight, so he had no means of contacting John or even just distracting himself.  
An hour later, Mycroft walked into his room. "Ah, you're still here, good," he nodded. "Not that it would be much use to try to escape, of course." He gave Sherlock one of his painful looking smiles. "Sorry I'm only here now. There was some urgent business I needed to take care of."  
"How long are you planning on keeping me here?" Sherlock asked, glaring at him. "And when will I get my laptop?"  
"As soon as the doctors think you are fit to do something else than resting," Mycroft answered, sitting down on the chair next to Sherlock's bed. "The same goes for keeping you here. I wouldn't expect you out of here within the week."  
"A week? I can't stay here a week. I have to find the witness. Jane Levington. How she managed to slip through your fingers in the first place is a mystery to me. She was hospitalised right after your agent died. Moran tried to silence her. He is not giving up until she's dead. I have to find her."  
He tried to sit up, but slumped back, groaning.  
"Sherlock, the world keeps on turning while you are healing. We will trace her," Mycroft said.  
"I need my laptop. I have... mails to answer. People who can help." Sherlock's insides burned with anger at the pleading tone in his voice, but he needed to reach John. To talk with someone who understood the importance of stopping Moran.  
"I'm sure that can wait."  
"No, it can't," Sherlock snapped.  
"Sherlock, be reasonable. Your own health is your only concern at this moment," Mycroft said.  
"Tedious." Sherlock muttered. But he was too exhausted to argue right now.  
"But necessary."  
...  
When Sherlock awoke, the first thing he noticed was his laptop sitting on the table next to his bed. He sat up, took it and quickly logged on. There was no message from John. He hadn't really expected it, but still... Surely John was back in Afghanistan by now. Not having written indicated that he was resentful, rather than worried because Sherlock hadn't kept their appointment.  
Considering the behaviour John had displayed so far, this could only mean that something else had happened. Something to cause him to be distressed or angry. Sherlock sincerely hoped it had nothing to do with Moran. He considered for a moment, then sent a cautious message:  
***  
To: John Watson  
Subject: Failure to show

I apologise for not being able to keep our appointment. I was prevented by circumstances I had no influence over.  
I hope you enjoyed your stay in London and that I did not cause you too much inconvenience.

Sherlock  
***  
In the afternoon, Mrs. Hudson came in for a visit. She brought a whole cake and flowers and just wouldn't stop fussing about him.  
"You poor poor thing," she said. "I should have done something the first time you came in like that. You just don't take care of yourself, who knows how badly this could have ended... If only I had told Mycroft so he could have taken care of you."  
Sherlock smiled at her. "You did the right thing. I was working on a case and if you had contacted Mycroft then, I would have missed out on valuable information. Information that will save lives."  
"Yes, but look at you now! A young man like you shouldn't get injured so badly that he ends up in hospital!"  
"I can take it. I'm tough, you know that." He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it.  
She smiled, but the worry didn't leave her eyes. "Well, it's a good thing they can keep an eye on you here in the hospital."  
"I don't need anyone to keep an eye on me," he said and glanced over at his laptop. No reply from John yet. He suppressed a sigh.  
"Why are you young people constantly staring at electronic devices?" Mrs. Hudson sighed. "It's rather impolite, you know, to let your attention be divided like that."  
Sherlock smiled at her. "I'm sorry. It's just this friend I have. I was prevented from keeping our appointment when I got hurt and I fear I may have hurt his feelings. I am waiting to hear from him. Not so different from checking the mailbox again and again for a long awaited letter. Surely you did that in your youth?" he teased.  
She blushed. "Why, of course... So is it like that, with you two? Do you write love letters?"  
Sherlock snorted. "No," he said quickly. "That was just a comparison of the media. It's nothing like that. We're friends...." he thought for a moment, then added, "Best friends."  
She smiled. "I'm so glad you have finally found a good friend. You hope you can make it up to him about the appointment."  
He nodded. "Yes. If he hasn't become so cross with me that he won't write back to me."  
She looked amused. "Oh, I'm sure he'll write back. If he's become that important to you, I'm sure it goes both ways."  
Sherlock frowned at her expression. "He's a good friend. He's helped me. I..." He considered for a moment. "I suppose that maybe it was all very one-sided... Him helping me, and me unloading on him..." Absentmindedly, he tugged on his lip as he wondered if maybe he had been reading the whole thing wrong. Did John share his take on their friendship? Did he even consider it a friendship?  
Mrs. Hudson patted his hand. "I'll leave you two to it, then," she said, waving at the laptop. "I'm sure everything will be fine. You're such a good boy at heart. I'm sure he'll see that too if he takes the time to get to know you."  
Sherlock nodded and did a sort of wave in her general direction, not really hearing what she said as he was becoming completely absorbed in the pondering of this new conundrum.  
...  
A couple of hours later, a mail from John finally appeared on the screen.  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: Failure to show

Right.  
***  
Sherlock cringed. John clearly was angry with him.  
But then he realised that John's emotional reaction being this strong, meant two things: first of all, the meeting had been equally important to John. So he did value their friendship. This was a good thing. But John did not usually bear grudges. So his current mood also indicated that something else had indeed happened. Something bad. Why had John come to London? Had he mentioned?  
Which should he pursue first? Mending things with John by explaining in more detail why he had been prevented from keeping their appointment, or getting to the root of what was really bothering John?  
The answer turned out to be simple, though it took Sherlock a while to arrive at it: John would not be inclined to share any information with him that would help solve the second problem, as long as Sherlock had not dealt with the first.  
***  
To: John Watson  
Re: Failure to show

I apologise if I was a bit vague in my previous message. What happened was that I had another confrontation with Moran and was hospitalised. There is no need to worry. I am fine now, but there was some concern due to a semi-severe concussion at the time. 

Sherlock  
***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Failure to show

Bastard. You really are an idiot for still getting near him. I could have used a normal meeting.

***  
To: John Watson  
Re: re: Failure to show

I am really sorry. I take it your other business in London did not go as planned. Were you visiting friends?

Sherlock

***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Failure to show

Ah well. Apology accepted, I suppose. Just be there next time.  
I was meeting my sister. 'Didn't go as planned' is the least you can say, but it wasn't entirely unexpected.

John

***  
Sherlock reread John's mail a couple of times. His sister? There was clearly some resentment there. And some history, since it wasn't unexpected.  

***

To: John Watson  
Re: re: Failure to show

She didn't want your help?

Sherlock

***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Failure to show

Indeed. She always lets things come so far that I can't help her, even if I'd still want to, after everything she's called me.

John  
***

Sherlock smiled a little. Somehow it sounded a little too familiar.

***

To: John Watson  
Re: re: Failure to show

She's had a relapse. It is hard to accept help when you have yet to admit to yourself that you have a problem. She cannot be helped before she wants to be.

Sherlock

***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Failure to show

I know. But I could only try. I really don't want her to feel alone in this, but all she does is pushing away the ones who care about her.

By the way, are you alright? Are you still in hospital?

John

***  
Sherlock thought back to the time when he was still abusing, and how he had felt towards Mycroft, Lestrade and anyone else who had been trying to interfere, no matter how well-meaning.

***  
To: John Watson  
Re: re: Failure to show

Don't try to help her. Don't even acknowledge that there is a problem. Let her know that you care about her and you will always be there, should she ever need you. For anything.

And yes, I am fine. I have been admitted for observation, but should be out soon.

Sherlock

***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Failure to show

That's probably a good idea - but I don't think I'll be telling her much in the near future. The row got a bit too bad for that.

Okay, glad to hear that. Get well soon. I take it you're not going back to Moran?

John

***  
Sherlock hesitated before answering.

***  
To: John Watson  
Re: re: Failure to show

I still haven't found the woman. But no, I think I have enough information to at least give Moran enough trouble to keep him and his boss occupied for quite a while.

Sherlock

***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: Failure to show

That's a relief. Where do you think she is?  
It will be a while before I answer again, got a job to do.

John

***  
As Sherlock dozed off again, he vaguely sensed that someone took the laptop from him and placed it back on the table.

...  
They kept Sherlock in the hospital for nearly a week. He suspected that Mycroft had more than a little to do with that, but since his brother did not visit him again, he could not confront him with it.  
He would have lost his mind from boredom had he not had John to write to. At first they just exchanged small remarks about Sherlock's health and about life in Afghanistan, but then John asked what Sherlock did when he wasn't working on a case, so he began explaining about some of the more fascinating experiments he had been conducting lately. John seemed interested and asked some, not completely clueless, questions.  
Then John told him about the complaint filed against him and how the charges had finally been completely dropped after Miller had refused to cooperate. The young lieutenant was still quite hostile towards John, and Sherlock advised him to keep as much distance to the man as possible. Having experienced Moran's handling up close, he could not blame anyone for coming out of such an encounter feeling resentful and paranoid.  
On the third day, Lestrade visited Sherlock and brought along photos of a crime scene that had the whole Yard flabbergasted. It took Sherlock less than ten minutes to examine them and point out the lack of broken glass as well as the traces of plaster, that made the whole thing come together and the next day he received a potted peace lily with an only slightly sarcastic thank you/get well note from Donovan and the rest of the team.  
He told John about the case and they had a good laugh about Anderson's incompetence after Sherlock, quite colourfully, had described the man to John.  
Another factor that definitely had contributed to Sherlock maintaining his sanity, was a young nurse, Martha, who had apparently taken quite a shine to Sherlock and helped him sneak up to the roof to have a cigarette now and then.  
On the fifth day, John told him that Lieutenant Morstan was going out on a four day mission, and sensing John's frustration and concern, Sherlock suggested that they could meet on Skype that evening, just to chat.  
"Hey," John smiled at him when he had logged on. "You look almost as bad as last time." He pointed at Sherlock's face.  
Sherlock laughed. "Thank you. All the bruises are in their most colourful stage, so it looks a lot worse than it feels."  
"Fortunately," John chuckled. "I'm really glad to see you. Needed someone to talk to, tonight."  
"Oh?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Is Lieutenant Morstan not around?"  
"Told you, you should pay attention," John smiled. "She left for that mission this afternoon."  
Sherlock chuckled. "Of course. I am sorry if I cannot keep track of your tangled love life these days."  
John snorted. "She's my friend."  
"No, John. She's a little more than a friend."  
"She's a friend with- with great benefits." John shifted in his chair.  
Sherlock snorted. "I'm not sure I want to hear about those."  
"I wasn't going to tell you about them!" John said defensively. "I mean that we're not in a relationship."  
"Yes, you are," Sherlock said flatly.  
John frowned. "You'd think I'd know that about myself."  
"But are you so sure about her?" Sherlock studied his reaction closely.  
John hesitated for a moment. "She's been asking to meet quite a lot recently - but, I mean, it just gets lonely here. It doesn't mean... that."  
Sherlock sighed. "She is getting attached, isn't she?"  
John looked uncomfortable. "I'm not sure I want to talk about this. What are you saying I should do, then?"  
"I'm not saying you should do anything," Sherlock said with a shrug.  
"No, but... I still feel the same about our... 'arrangement', to call it that. I don't want to hurt her."  
"So don't. You set down the rules, so to speak, before you started this, right? You are not in the wrong here."  
"Hmm." John clearly wanted to change the subject. "So how are you doing there?"  
"Bored out of my mind," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.  
"Sorry to hear that. But well, I guess it's better than being beaten up." John smiled a little.  
"Only barely." Sherlock laughed.  
"I could always send someone," John grinned, teasing.  
"Oh? Not going to do it yourself?"  
"Can't take another leave so soon with the excuse that I have to go punch someone in the face, can I?" John grinned.  
"You're right, that may not go over too well."  
John smiled, then his face turned more serious. "Do you think he'll come after you?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "He wouldn't know where to find me. I should be safe."  
John looked thoughtful. "From what your stories tell me, it wouldn't be the first time he follows someone. Be careful."  
"He'd have to find me, to follow me. And he knows nothing about me. He hardly knows how I look."  
"I'm not sure I believe that," John said hesitantly. "I mean, he must have looked to hit you and it looks like he did that often enough. And who knows what else he did to you." He looked bitter and worried.  
Sherlock didn't meet John's eyes as he said, "I looked... different. I was someone else."  
John frowned. "A disguise?"  
"In a way," Sherlock messed up his curls and assumed Stevenson's more alert but less observant expression, and then spoke in the Cornish accent: "I think I got him fooled."  
John stared. "How do you do that with changing so little?"  
"Practice." Sherlock grinned and instantly became himself again.  
"Did you have an acting career before you became a detective?" John asked, sounding as if he was proud that he had just found out something about the other man.  
Sherlock huffed. "Of course not. I just use my own understanding and observations about human nature. It is really quite easy to make others see what you want them to."  
"Not to anyone else. At least not anyone else I know," John said, sounding a little incredulous.  
"People just don't want to put in the effort. This is not something I could just do. It has taken years of study and practice."  
"I can imagine. So you always knew you were going to do... this?" John asked.  
"I've always known what I like doing. It was just a matter of finding a way to combine it all. This seemed the most logical choice."  
John smiled. "Inventing your own job. Well, I guess I've more or less done the same, only army doctors already existed."  
"It does suit you," Sherlock said. "Your need to help others and your thirst for danger. Where else could you have found that?"  
John smiled. "That's what I thought when I decided what I wanted to do for a living. Although I don't know if I'd call it a thirst for danger. I just... don't want to have a boring life. You know, I couldn't just sit in an office or anything all day."  
"I know." Sherlock smirked slightly.  
They kept talking about their careers and how they'd ended up where they were now, until a nurse came and insisted that Sherlock had to log off, because it was time to eat. They made arrangements for the next day, and then had another great talk about nothing in particular. It was cut off when the doctor came to tell Sherlock that he was released and could go home.   
Sherlock hurriedly changed into his own clothes, gathered his things and rushed down to get a cab. But to his chagrin, one of Mycroft's cars was waiting for him. He walked over and opened the door. "You're just taking me home, right?" he asked irritably.  
Mycroft gave him a tight-lipped smile from the back seat. "Of course, dear brother. Sit down."  
Sherlock frowned but got in the car.  
"I made sure your most necessary belongings were brought over," Mycroft informed him.  
Realising his mistake in trusting his brother, Sherlock glared at him. "Brought where?" he growled.  
"Home," Mycroft answered, pulling up his eyebrows in innocent surprise.  
"My home?" Sherlock insisted.  
"My home."  
Sherlock practically exploded. "Screw you, Mycroft. You have no right to decide for me. Let me out of this car right now."  
"Oh, Sherlock, be reasonable. I can't leave you alone now. You probably think you're perfectly safe, but I disagree. I'm making sure you get the best protection possible."  
"You are making sure that you can keep an eye on me because you still don't trust me," Sherlock huffed, wrapping his coat and arms around himself as he glared out the window, trying to ignore his older brother.  
"That is only part of the reason, like you rationally know well enough. It's no use sulking," Mycroft said.  
Sherlock did indeed know it was no use. But that was not going to stop him any time soon.


	11. Chapter 11

John woke up as Mary’s grip around him tightened. She had fallen asleep on top of him, which wasn’t surprising after what they had been up to while she was already exhausted from the mission. John himself hadn’t had the energy to protest anyway, at that point. But now she was snuggling even closer, still asleep, and John frowned at himself. Last night had been expected, almost logical, with it having been almost five days. But now Mary clung to him like one would to a lover, a partner. As if they had an actual relationship. Sherlock was probably right. From Mary’s point of view, they seemed to have one.  
Still, he really wasn’t so sure about himself. Mary was great, yes, but a relationship had always sounded very serious to him. There had been a time his mates laughed at those views, back when they weren’t married. But John really needed a certain click to consider it anything more than ‘sleeping around’, and as fond as he was of Mary, as great a friend she was, however attractive she was, he just wasn’t in love with her and couldn’t imagine he would ever be.  
Yet Sherlock, the most observant man John knew, said he was certain that Mary was in love with him.  
Everything John did now, would hurt his friend. His best friend. If they went on like this, Mary would believe that he returned her feelings and expect more from him that he couldn’t give her, not as an honest man. But if he brought it up, told her that they should stop their ‘arrangement’, she would know he didn’t love her in that way and feel rejected, maybe even think he wasn’t attracted to her anymore. It could ruin their friendship.  
John sighed and tried to pull away a little, but Mary just followed with her head on his chest and sighed happily. He had always feared it would end up like this, as happy as he had been to get into it and indeed chase the loneliness away. For a while he had been scared that he’d be the one to get too involved, but in the end it was Mary who was starting to see him as more than a friend, and perhaps that was even worse. Otherwise, at least he would be the one who ended up hurt, rather than hurting her.  
He wished he could talk about this to someone, but Sherlock didn’t seem the most competent when it came to relationship advice, and the last few days he hadn’t been online much anyway. And when he was, he had been complaining about his brother who apparently was a prick. John suppressed a fond smile at the memory. He didn’t normally think of a bloke as ‘adorable’, but the self-confident detective was like a child when something didn’t go to his liking and he couldn’t do anything about it.  
Mary stirred and he sighed, debating whether he should wrap an arm around her or not. In the end he just lay still, waiting for her to wake up.  
When Mary woke, she lifted her head up to smile at John. She was a perfect mess of puffy eyes, ruffled hair and morning breath. "G'morning," she muttered and yawned.  
"Morning." John gently pushed her off so he could sit up and maybe feel a little less uncomfortable.  
She frowned at him. "Is something wrong?"  
"No, I... No, we just have to get up for work."  
"There's no hurry," she said lazily, reaching out for him. "There's plenty of time for a morning cuddle. Or more."  
"I'm sorry." John turned around to give her a weak smile. "I don't really feel like it."  
She sat up, frowning. "Something is wrong then. What is it? Sherlock? Harry?"  
"I... No..." He didn't feel like lying, but he couldn't tell her the truth either. "It's nothing, I mean, nothing important. Don't worry. I just think I need to be alone for a bit to, you know, get my thoughts in line." There, at least that was true.  
"Right." She wrapped the sheet tighter around her body. "Well, I guess I'll see you around then."  
"Yeah, I'm sorry. We'll chat later." He hadn't realised he could feel even more uncomfortable, but Mary's eyes on him as he quickly put on his clothes proved him wrong. Before he was done, she had lain down and turned her back on him.  
"Sure," she muttered.  
...  
John was almost dragged in as he arrived at the medical post.  
“Bit of a disaster going on here,” one of the nurses told him. “They went on an unplanned recon and one of them was hit badly.”  
“Shit,” John muttered, shifting his focus to what he had to do, rather than his personal problems.  
“Watson, thank god,” the colleague who had just brought the wounded in said. “Best have a look at Miller right away. Big chance the bullets punctured his right lung.”  
“Miller?”  
...  
A helicopter was needed to bring Miller to a fully equipped hospital as quickly as possible. John and the others could do a lot, but Miller was dangling on his last thread of life and it went over their capacities here. The lieutenant would be a lucky man if he got through this.

One of the other men who had gone along on the recon was telling how it had been Miller’s idea to go, because he had a suspicion of some turmoil going on, but they had all been doubtful because Lt. Miller had been acting reckless in the last few weeks – but he had the highest rank out of them, so they couldn’t really protest.  
John, feeling miserable, let his head sink in his hands. He could imagine where Miller’s recklessness had come from. The man’s behaviour towards him had made it clear enough that John had stirred up memories he badly wanted to forget. It wasn’t his fault, it was Moran’s, but still he felt guilty.  
“Watson.” The other doctor put a hand on his shoulder. “Go to sleep. We’ve had a tough day and if things go on like this, I’m afraid we’ll need you again sooner than we’d like.”  
John nodded. “Sorry, I was distracted for a moment.”  
“We’re all tired. Just get back in the morning.” She gave John a friendly nod.  
John tried to follow her advice and sleep, but he was just too restless. The remaining adrenalin of working on the wounded soldiers, combined with guilt ghosting through his mind, just wouldn’t allow him to get the rest he needed so badly. After a while he gave up and flung his legs over the edge of his bed, got up and took his laptop.

***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: A hell of a day  
   
You still awake?  
   
John

***  
To: John Watson  
Re: A hell of a day

Yes. Something wrong?

Sherlock

***  
John breathed in relief as he saw Sherlock's answer appear. At least he didn't have to be alone.

***  
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Re: re: A hell of a day

Miller got shot. I just need to talk to someone, can't sleep.

John

***  
Less than a minute later Sherlock logged on to Skype. As he appeared on the screen, his brow was creased with worry. "What happened?"  
John took a deep breath, grateful to see his friend even though the circumstances weren't ideal for the other. "He was brought in when I started work today. Had to patch him up, but- it wasn't enough, and he's brought away, and I hate to say it but objectively speaking the chance is minimal that he will make it." John swallowed.  
Sherlock nodded. "And you blame yourself?"  
"It is my fault." John closed his eyes for a moment. "He had gotten reckless. My actions made him think too much of what had happened to him and..."  
"And if it bothered him so much, he should have sought help," Sherlock interrupted. "It is not your fault. He was the victim of a crime and you tried to help him."  
John looked hesitant and grabbed the edge of his laptop to keep in control of his emotions. "I should be able to cope with this. Losing a patient, all that. I've gone through it far too often. But now I just can't put it out of my mind."  
John took another deep breath, lost for words. He just needed someone's company to clear his mind, but that didn't make him the most enjoyable person to be around now. He wished he could take Sherlock's hand, just something, to ground him, and instead clung to the sides of his laptop. "I'm sorry," he mumbled after a moment.  
Sherlock frowned. "For what?"  
"For losing it like this and pouring it all over you at this hour."  
"First of all, you haven't lost it. Secondly, that's what... friends are for, right? And thirdly, while I'm staying with my 'dear' brother, I welcome any kind of interaction at any hour of the day or night."  
John smiled a little. "You're a great friend, Sherlock. Thanks."  
Sherlock chuckled. "I can honestly say that no-one has ever said that to me before."  
John shrugged. "I mean it."  
"I'm glad. You're a great friend too. One of the few things that have kept me sane through all this."  
Another small smile broke through John's expression. "I can imagine it wasn't easy to face Moran on your own."  
Sherlock laughed. "Oh, Moran was easy. Well, not easy, but interesting. No, the real challenge has been being confined to a hospital bed for the better part of a week without strangling anyone. And now..." He glanced around. "This..."  
John shook his head, smiling. "Only you would call a man interesting after he's basically tortured you." Then his expression turned more serious again. "I can't help but worrying... from a professional point of view, I mean - what did Moran do to you?"  
Sherlock hesitated, then muttered. "We... had sex..." He looked down at his hands.  
John almost choked. For a start he hadn't expected such a straightforward answer, and the content wasn't to his liking either. "Did- did you have sex, or did he... force you?" he asked carefully.  
Sherlock shook his head. "It was rough but... consensual."  
John frowned. "Are you attracted to him?"  
Sherlock huffed. "No."  
"You did that just for information?" John tried not to show the disgust at the thought that anyone would even voluntarily touch Moran.  
"No." A hint of colour spread across Sherlock's cheekbones. "I sucked him off for information. The... rest was when I was trying to keep close so I could protect the witness, should she resurface."  
John stared, now unable to hide the fact that he was horrified. "God, Sherlock..."  
Sherlock shrugged. "It wasn't that bad. He never damaged me. And it was always safe. Even when he had me tied up and could have ignored my wishes, he always wore a condom."  
"I'm not sure that makes it okay." John's voice was trembling. "I mean... God."  
"Really, John. I mean, it's not exactly like I enjoyed it, but it didn't really bother me."  
John bit his lip. "Okay," he said, not sure how he could tell Sherlock how not okay it was without scaring him off.  
"And it's over now anyway. I can't go back to him."  
"You don't want to, do you?" John asked.  
Sherlock shook his head. "The risk had become too high. That's why I left."  
"And he had beaten you into the hospital," John pointed out.  
"I would have been fine," Sherlock said dismissively. "It was just my brother pulling strings so he could have someone keep an eye on me. No, the reason I had to get out was that Moran wanted to use me for testing."  
John frowned. "To me, it looked like you needed a hospital or at least a doctor to watch over you. What kind of testing?"  
"Drugs," Sherlock said, his voice a little flat.  
"What?" John looked confused. "In what way did you have to test them?"  
"Try them..." Sherlock muttered.  
"As in, use them?" John looked disgusted.  
"I told him no," Sherlock said, defensively. "That's why he hit me."  
John chewed his lips, looking at Sherlock in sympathy and slightly desperate that such a clever man could get in such a mess. "Sherlock?"  
Sherlock sat looking at his hands for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Nothing happened," he muttered.  
"Would there have been a risk? I mean, that you actually did that?" John frowned, a little incredulous and distracted from what he actually was going to say.  
"Of course there wouldn't. I'm not an idiot," Sherlock snapped.  
"Sorry," John said quickly. "I didn't mean to insult you. I'm just trying to understand."  
"Nothing to understand. Moran is a prick who doesn't mind using people around him without any regard for their safety."  
"Yeah, I- I understand that much." John just didn't understand why someone wouldn't turn and run away from the man if they knew this. "Really, please stay away from anything that has to do with him. Even if it's good for the case. Your health is far more important."  
"Why do you think I left?" Sherlock seemed thoroughly annoyed. "I have no intention of doing drugs for Moran or anyone else."  
"I know. Sorry, I'm fretting a little too much with... all this." John sighed. "I really should go to bed."  
Sherlock echoed his sigh. "No, it's me. I'm a little jumpy on the subject because of my brother's paranoia."  
"I'm not blaming you. He does sound rather horrible."  
Sherlock snickered. "He is. A complete nightmare."  
John smiled. "Will he keep you imprisoned for much longer?"  
"If it was up to him, then probably forever. But I'm not staying much longer. Sooner rather than later, he'll get so annoyed with me that he'll kick me out."  
"He just can't lose you and wants to keep you close," John grinned.  
"No, he wants to control me and avoid embarrassment."  
"I doubt you'd embarrass him," John said. "He'd better be proud of you for all you achieve. All those solved cases."  
"All the people I offend. All the stupid social rules I break to get to the truth... He's never not embarrassed by me." Sherlock chuckled.  
John smiled. "Then that's his problem, not yours."  
Sherlock nodded. "But try telling him that."  
John yawned. "Maybe I'll be able to sleep now."  
"Good," Sherlock smiled. "You need it."  
"Yes." John frowned at the clock on his computer screen. "And there isn't much more than two hours left, before I have to get up again.”  
"Then get to bed," Sherlock said, in a mock-commanding tone.  
"Yes, Sir, you too," John chuckled. "Goodnight."  
"Goodnight." Sherlock did not log off this time, but waited for John to do it.  
John smiled at him. "See you soon," he said, before logging off. He stretched, went to bed, and was indeed able to catch the two remaining hours of sleep.  
...  
The next day was as busy as John's colleague had predicted, with the advantage that there wasn't much time to worry about anything other than the patients. John did take the time to ask for information on Miller's situation, but it was still pretty much the same as the day before and no one could really say if the lieutenant would make it.  
John was glad he had seen Sherlock, even if he was tired and had a headache from the lack of sleep. He worried about the detective, but then he was safe now, and all in all it had been calming to talk to him, however gruesome the subjects.  
In the evening, he decided to go and find Mary, to keep her informed about everything that had been going on and to make sure she didn't worry too much about him.  
Mary was engaged in conversation with two other soldiers. She looked up and flashed John a brief smile before continuing the story she was telling the others. John smiled back and leaned against the wall, waiting, as he didn't want to intrude by sitting down next to Mary.  
Mary took her time, talking with her friends. When they finally left, she got to her feet and walked over to John. "So," she said. "Any news about Miller?"  
"You know about it?" John asked. He shook his head. "He's pretty much the same as yesterday."  
"We're all very worried about him. He may not have many friends but he's still... one of us." She bit her lip, not quite meeting his eyes.  
John nodded. "I wish I could be certain that he'll make it. He's had to go through so much. Now luck ought to be on his side."  
She nodded. "Yes. It seems like it must be his turn to catch a break."  
John sighed and rubbed his face. "It's been far too busy here, these last few days."  
"Yes. But I suppose that's just how life at the front is. Periods of insufferable boredom followed by stress and worries."  
"Yeah. I'd better go to bed early today. How have you been?"  
She shrugged. "I've been fine. Busy."  
John nodded, suddenly feeling a little awkward. "Well, I'm really tired. I'd better be off."  
Mary nodded too. "Sure," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "Me too."  
"Alright. Goodnight?" John said.  
”Goodnight John.” She offered him a thin smile before leaving.  
...  
The next day was just as busy. Now and then, John caught a glimpse of Mary, but she barely acknowledged that she had seen him. Probably because she was busy herself, but John had the feeling that she wasn't doing anything to close the distance between them either.  
In the evening, he went to look for her again, this time in her room. "Mary? Can I come in?"  
"Sure." Mary did not look up from her book.  
"Er, hey," John said as he stepped in. "Are you okay?"  
She glanced briefly at him. "Sure," she said again.  
John frowned. "Mary, please tell me what's wrong. It's like you've been avoiding me. You are my best friend here, right? Then why can't we talk anymore?"  
She sighed. "I'm fine. I just thought you needed some space. You seemed a bit... off... the other morning."  
John hesitated. "I was just... thinking too much, I suppose."  
"Oh? About Harry?"  
"Yeah. About her too. And Sherlock. Just... all that."  
She frowned. "About Sherlock? I thought he was done with Moran and out of danger."  
John shrugged. "I'm not sure it's that easy."  
"Oh? Is Moran after him?"  
"I'm not sure. He's with his brother, so I guess he's safe there, but I still worry about him. It's like he doesn't realise what danger he is putting himself in," John said.  
"He's a grown man John. I'm sure he can take care of himself."  
"I know, but I can't help that he's on my mind. He's my friend," John shrugged.  
"He's not your only friend," she muttered, looking down at her book again.  
John frowned. "That's not what I'm saying, is it? I care about you too. You know that I do."  
She sighed. "Do I? I'm not so sure anymore."  
"Hey." John sat down next to her and gently bumped his shoulder against hers. "Tell me what I've done?"  
She looked at him and smiled a little. "You haven't done anything. You just seemed so distant the other day. I was worried that I had done something wrong or that you were regretting our... arrangement."  
"You've done nothing wrong, Mary." He laid an arm around her waist. "Don't let me make you feel bad."  
Her smile widened. "No?" She leaned a little closer, but hesitated as if she wasn't sure if it was okay to kiss him.  
John also hesitated for a moment. But then, it was just a kiss, and if that could help to make things right between them... He closed the distance and kissed her gently.  
Mary sighed as their lips touched. For a moment it was soft, gentle, almost chaste. Then she wrapped both arms around John and turned the kiss more passionate. John gasped, surprised by the sudden change, but then reflexively pulled her closer. Mary moaned and within moments had them both down on the bed, slowly undressing John, without taking her lips of his.  
A little voice in John's mind said that he should push her back and avoid making things worse, but his body disagreed wholeheartedly. Besides, that way he would hurt her again - and actually, how bad could a relationship really be? What did it matter if she loved him?  
Once Mary had gotten John's shirt off, she began kissing her way down his chest, until she reached a nipple and sucked eagerly on it.  
"God, Mary," John gasped, uncoordinatedly tugging at her clothes.  
She shifted a little to make it easier for him, not taking her lips and tongue off his nipple. John gently pushed her back, but ending things wasn't even on his mind anymore. He started kissing her neck, meanwhile taking her clothes off. Mary closed her eyes and quickly opened John's trousers and pushed them down to his thighs. She pressed her palm against the bulge in his pants and giggled softly.  
John moaned, his fingers trailing softly down the skin of her shoulders to her breasts.  
Mary pulled John's pants down and, pushing him onto his back, straddled him. She looked into his eyes for a moment, smiling, and then leaned down to kiss him hungrily.  
Answering the kiss, he tilted his hips and stroked down her back until his hands arrived under her knickers. "Off," he growled, stretching the fabric a little to indicate what exactly had to go.  
"Impatient, are we, Captain?" She laughed and kissed him again.  
"Tease," he mumbled between kisses, one of his hands wandering to the front of her body, still under her knickers.  
"I can afford to take my time," she purred. "Now I've got you right where I want you."  
Finally he pushed the fabric down as far as he could, which wasn't as far as he wanted, and then kissed her again. "So this time you don't want me to give the orders?" he said, a little breathless.  
"No, Captain," she answered, chuckling. "I think that, at this moment, I am the one in command."  
He smirked and bucked his hips up. "Then make some decisions."  
"I am," she said and kissed him again. Then she moved off him long enough to get her knickers off. But instead of straddling him again, she knelt next to his head and bent down to take his cock in her mouth.  
"Oh, god," John moaned. He tapped her thigh. "I can't reach you like this."  
She shifted to straddle his face, keeping up enough that she wouldn't smother him, but close enough that he could reach.  
"Yes," he mumbled, pressing his lips against her skin and licking. Mary was everywhere now, doing wonderful things to his cock; her smell, her taste... What would Sherlock smell like?, he suddenly wondered, then frowned at the thought and focused on Mary.  
...  
Okay, so he had done it again. How could he be so stupid? He was only making things worse, but there he was, after a fantastic shag that he hadn't deserved at all. Everyone who thought of this would call him a selfish bastard. So did he, really. But Mary could make him stop thinking completely, apparently. What he was doing here just wasn't fair. He really ought to make up his mind. It had been great to see how happy Mary had been that morning, waking up with him, and yes, he could agree with experiencing that moment more often. But apart from not being sure about his feelings, they could easily get into trouble if someone wanted to complain about him shagging a subordinate. And then there was something else nagging him. Why on earth had he been thinking of Sherlock? Worrying about him was one thing. Getting curious about him during sex... Well, that was more than a bit not good. Maybe Mary was right and the brilliant detective was becoming a bit of an obsession. But he wasn't even gay. It had nothing to do with that.  
It just didn't help that he hadn't heard from Sherlock since their nocturnal chat. The man would keep him hanging for days without an explanation and John would only get more impatient to hear from him again. It was ridiculous. Maybe it would even put his mind at rest if he gave in to what Mary wanted. A stable relationship with a real person would make inappropriate thoughts about his long-distance friend impossible.


	12. Chapter 12

"Good morning, Sherlock," Mycroft said coldly.   
Breakfast always was a joy these days.  
Sherlock just grunted in reply as he sat down and poured himself a cup of tea. He had had another sleepless night, trying to figure out if there was any way of finding the elusive Jane Levington before Moran did.  
"Didn't sleep much?" Mycroft asked.  
"None of your business," Sherlock snapped, blowing on his tea. "When can I go home?"  
"Oh, I don't think that will be soon," Mycroft said lightly, taking the sugar.  
"And why not?" Sherlock glared at him. "I'm not going near Moran again, and he's not going to find me."  
"No, but your online activity of last night was very... enlightening," Mycroft said, focusing on spreading butter over his toast.  
Sherlock put down his cup slowly and got to his feet. "You have no right to spy on my conversations," he said, sounding calm, but visibly trembling with rage.  
"Oh, I wasn't spying. I just caught a few words that rather worried me." Mycroft looked up from his toast.  
"What words? I don't believe dieting was mentioned," Sherlock sneered.  
"Don't be so childish, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. "You were telling a complete stranger that Moran has tried to administer drugs to you. Why didn't you tell us, if not because you were tempted?"  
"I didn't tell you because it's none of your goddamn business. I turned him down flat. Why do you think he beat me up so badly?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
Mycroft shrugged. "Because that is what he does. Every time. Without reason."  
Sherlock huffed. "Well, he had a reason this time. I told him there was no way I was doing drugs for him or anyone else. And that's it."  
"And you do find that reason enough to have yourself beaten up? You think you deserved it?" Mycroft frowned.  
"I think that taking that beating was my best chance of getting out of there alive," Sherlock said. With a sigh he sat down again and sipped his tea.  
"The thing is, that whatever you say, I cannot be certain it is the truth. It wouldn't be the first time you told a lie, just to get to a certain amount of cocaine. Apart from your addiction to this case, which will make it hard enough to keep you away from Moran, I now know that there is another reason why you could be eager to find him again. Therefore you are not allowed to leave this house."  
"Addiction?” Sherlock snapped. “I'm not 'addicted' to anything. I was working on a case. One so complex and fascinating that it was worth a few sacrifices."  
Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. "Listen to yourself and be rational."  
"I am rational," Sherlock huffed. "I told you. I'm not going near Moran again. I have the profile I need, to catch him the next time he makes a move. To catch him so thoroughly that even his mysterious employer can't buy him out."  
"I'm glad to hear that. But knowing his employer, I wouldn't be too certain that they won't get after you, so you stay here."  
Sherlock studied his brother for a moment. "If you really do know that much about his employer, why the hell didn't you tell me before you put me on the case? It might have, you know, helped me. I might not have had to get close to Moran at all."  
"I had told you to keep off the case. You just never listen. Besides, this information is rather new," Mycroft explained calmly.  
"You told me to abandon the case once you had gotten the information you needed. You didn't care about taking Moran down, you just had to know that your sordid little secret remained safe," Sherlock sneered. "But I don't work like that and you know it. I solve the puzzle. The whole puzzle."  
"But now it has become important enough to take over. He has hurt you, and the witness is known. All we need is to find her, but all this is out of your hands," Mycroft said.  
"Good luck," Sherlock snapped. "Moran can't find her. I can't find her. What the hell makes you think that you can? And besides, you can't stop me. I am leaving today and where I go and what I do is none of your damn business."  
"Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft almost laughed, but instead gave him a pitying look. "I can stop you. Just like I can stop the questionable contact you have with Captain Watson. Your laptop has been removed and I will investigate the Captain’s past. He hardly seems the right man for you to talk to these days."  
"What!" Sherlock was on his feet. "You can't... You have no right..."  
Mycroft shrugged. "Probably not, but that won't stop me. Your safety is far more important than the limitation of my rights."  
"John is not a threat to my safety," Sherlock snarled. "He's my... my friend..."  
"Or he has manipulated you into believing exactly that, in order to collect information. You should know better, Sherlock."  
"You don't know anything about John. It's not like that. I found him. He's been helping me." Sherlock was becoming desperate. Locked up here without any contact to the outside world, to John... He'd go insane in a matter of hours. But he could also tell, from Mycroft's expression, that it was hopeless. His brother’s mind was made up and there was no reasoning with him.  
Mycroft nodded, clearly recognizing defeat in Sherlock's expression. "He's been helping you just enough to make you trust him, but always without leading to real results. What do you actually know about him? He's far enough away from you to not have to act like a real friend, so you can as well imagine that he cares about you."  
"Yes. Because no-one would want to actually be friends with me, right?" Sherlock was close to just launching himself at his brother. He clenched his hands so hard that the knuckles turned white.  
"Don't be childish, Sherlock. You don't need anyone. It would be highly improbable that exactly this man has friendly intentions towards you," Mycroft said.  
Sherlock glared at him one final time and then stalked out and headed up to his room. His laptop was of course already gone, and there was no other means of contacting anyone outside. Unless he broke into Mycroft's office, of course. But that wouldn't be necessary. He had known that it would come to this, he supposed. He had only lasted this long because he had John to vent at and his stories of life in the army, no matter how petty some of his concerns were, to give him some sort of link with the outside world.  
Sherlock waited until he heard Mycroft's car leave. Security was always a bit more lax when his brother was out of the house. Though his men knew they were to keep an eye on Sherlock, their primary function was to protect their employer.  
Sure enough, not five minutes after Mycroft had left, the guard walking the front yard went round the back, probably to share a cigarette with the female assistant who usually slipped out for one of her little breaks around this time. It gave Sherlock five to ten minutes. More than enough. He picked the lock on the door to his room and hurried down the hall to Mycroft's bedroom. The main controls for the alarms were in the office, of course, but there was a small panel inside the closet. He examined the keys for a moment. Mycroft had gotten careless, it seemed. It took Sherlock only a few minutes to deduce which keys had been used the most and in which order. And so predictable. Mummy's birthday reversed. Really... Sherlock punched the numbers and the command to deactivate the system.  
Then he hurried down the corridor and descended the stairs, avoiding the creaking step as well as the photocell on the landing. By the front door he paused, listening. The guard had not yet returned, but it wouldn't be long. With a bitter thought at Mycroft for not having his coat brought along, Sherlock left the house and sprinted to the front gates, which he easily climbed over.  
He was free. He was about as far as he could get from Baker Street, he did not have his phone or any money. But he was free from Mycroft's clutches, and he intended to stay that way. But how? He could not go home. Surely there were already men posted there, in case Sherlock escaped or Moran or anyone else came looking for him. He really had no friends, except from John, and even if he could reach him, there was really nothing John could do. The sensible thing would be to leave London for a while, but to do that, he needed money. And a car. He turned down a camera free street and began walking, trying not to draw unnecessary attention to himself. A man without a coat or jacket, on foot in this kind of neighbourhood, was bad enough in itself.  
Suddenly a car pulled up alongside him. Sherlock considered his options. There was really no point in running. If Mycroft had tracked him so quickly, he might as well give up. So he stopped and faced the toned window of the passenger seat. To his surprise, the door opened on the driver's side and a dark-haired, vaguely familiar man stepped out.  
He smiled at Sherlock. "You look like you could use a ride... Thomas."  
Then it dawned on Sherlock. His replacement. Moran somehow must have known where to look for him. But how could he have? He didn't know Sherlock's true identity. He didn't know he was associated with Mycroft at all. So what was this man doing here?  
The other man looked up and down the street. "Or we could just stand here and wait for your brother to join us..."  
Realising he didn't have a choice, Sherlock nodded and got in the passenger seat. If he didn't follow, the man would probably just shoot him anyway.  
Before he had buckled his seatbelt properly, they were off, going slightly too fast for the roads they were driving.  
"I'm James, by the way," the shorter man said. "James Murphy. And no," he chuckled, "Moran doesn't know your little secret... Thomas."  
Sherlock stared at him for a moment. "What?" was all he could manage.  
Murphy shrugged. "I checked you out. When I got dumped from my new job because you decided to come crawling back, I got curious. So I followed you on your little outings. Really quite careless of you, but I suppose Moran was too stupid to realise who he was dealing with."  
Sherlock frowned. "Why didn't you tell him?"  
The other man chuckled. "And spoil the fun? Come on, I just had to see what would happen. Moran putting you in the hospital was pretty high on my list of probable outcomes."  
Sherlock nodded. He had foreseen that as well. "So what now?" he said, trying to sound calm. "Do you take me back to him? Reveal my secret and get some kind of reward?"  
"Yes, no and yes," Murphy said, grinning. "I am returning you to him, and there is indeed a reward for whoever finds you. But... I'm not going to tell on you. Not yet, anyway. There's a delicate balance in this town and handing Moran and his boss Mycroft Holmes' brother would shift it too much. Chaos is not good for people in our line of work. Or rather... mine and Thomas' line of work. But I do need my paycheck, so you're going back to Moran. If you manage to sneak off again, more power to you. I really couldn't care less."  
Sherlock nodded. Not as bad as it could be, but still pretty bad.  
...  
"James," Moran said coolly, raising his eyebrows as he opened the door for them. "I thought I had asked you to bring the garbage out, not in."  
Murphy grinned and held out a hand, palm up. "Cash on delivery," he said.  
Sherlock just looked down at Moran's feet, knowing that whatever happened next, he was in serious danger.  
"Where did you find him?" Moran asked, ignoring Murphy's hand.  
"Trying to jump a train north at King's Cross," Murphy said, slowly lowering his hand. "He wasn't too pleased to see me."  
Sherlock huffed. The lie was a good one, so he might as well play along.  
"Right." Moran grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and pushed him past him into the flat. "I'll deal with you later," he told Murphy.  
Murphy grinned and nodded before turning and heading down the stairs.  
Sherlock cringed but didn't speak. He couldn't quite read Sebastian's mood.  
Moran closed the door and turned towards Sherlock. "Sit," he said, waving at the sofa.   
Sherlock nodded and hurried over to sit down. Not until he looked down at his legs, did he realise that he was still wearing his suit.  
Moran came to stand in front of him, too close, looking down on him with his hands in his sides and his legs wide. "So, where have you been all this time?" He sounded almost normal, as if he were chatting with a long lost friend.  
"Recovering," Sherlock said, glancing up at him. "After my last... accident."  
"Right," Moran said. "And then the fairy godmother came by and bought you a new suit?"  
"Close," he said, grinning a little. "My sister got married yesterday. Her new brother-in-law gave me this because it didn't fit him anymore." He smiled sheepishly. "The wedding was the only reason I came back to London."  
"Your sister, hm?" Moran took out his phone, sent a quick text and put it back. "So the rest of the time you simply didn't think loyalty was needed."  
"I thought my health was more important, yeah," Sherlock said defiantly. "I told you I wouldn't do drugs, but I kind of got the feeling you wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."  
"We'll talk about that later." Moran sat down next to him. "I'm deeply disappointed in you, Stevenson."  
"Because I won't shoot up for you?" Sherlock asked, without bothering to hide his contempt.  
"Because you didn't return. I thought you were tough. I need tough. Now... I don't know what use you are to me now."  
"Me neither," Sherlock said and started to get up. "So why don't I just get out of your way."  
Moran almost laughed. "Heh, no. You understand well enough that I can't allow that."  
"I don't really see why not. I haven't ratted on you or anything. You can trust me."  
"Until they start paying you for information. You do anything for money, that much is clear. So you'll stay," Moran said. He checked his phone and nodded. "At least the story about your sister was true."  
"Stay?" Sherlock huffed. "I'm not staying with you after what you did to me last time." He dodged Moran and headed for the door.  
Moran caught his arm and hurled him against the wall. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice," he growled.  
Pain shot through his still healing ribs and Sherlock cried out. The wind was knocked from his lungs, but he managed to stay on his feet. "Not again," he groaned and, for the first time, took a defensive stance.  
"Oh, so now you're finally fighting back," Moran said, giving him a little more distance but laying a hand over Sherlock's throat instead, only close enough to make it a little bit uncomfortable, but allowing him to breathe. "Where do you want to go so urgently, anyway?"  
"Away..." Sherlock gasped. "From... the city and... temptation." He did not add 'and as far from you as I can possibly get,' though that was indeed the one priority that really mattered right now.  
"Without money? And why? So you can go back to loneliness? To being useless?" Moran asked.  
"I'm not useless," Sherlock muttered, fighting to stay in character, rather than just punch Moran and make a run for it. His odds of making it out did not look good.  
"You can be of use to me, you know that," Moran said, his voice softer now. "Why don't we make a deal?" He let go of Sherlock's throat and placed both his hands firmly on Sherlock's shoulders.  
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. "Not that," he muttered. But he already knew that it would happen. That from the moment he had gotten into that car it would end like this. He even suspected that some small part of him had known it back then. That some small part of him had chosen it. "Please..." he whispered, hanging his head in defeat. "Don't..."  
"Sssh. It's not so bad, is it?" Moran almost sounded sweet. "You get the choice. Either you do this tiny test for us and I'll trust you, I'll even let you go if you want. Or you keep struggling and we'll have a repetition of last time, only this time I would have to lock you up. Your choice. Just tell me what you want."  
"I..." Sherlock sighed and to his mortification actually felt tears pressing at the corners of his eyes. "I want to go..." he muttered. "I... I'll do whatever you want... Just let me go."  
"Good boy." Moran smiled, triumph showing in his eyes before he leaned in to Sherlock's jaw, his lips brushing against it as he spoke. "Think of how good it will make you feel. It's worth it, believe me."  
Sherlock whimpered and gave a tiny shake of his head.  
Moran stroked his cheek with the back of his fingers, then gently led him to the sofa. "Just sit here and let me take care of you."  
Sherlock looked at him, confused. What was going on? He couldn't make sense of Moran's changed behaviour other than that the man had finally gotten what he wanted. But Moran didn't just hurt and intimidate to get what he wanted. He did it because he liked it. So why not now? Fearing that this was just a trick to give him a false sense of security, he remained alert as he settled on the sofa. Moran disappeared for a moment, then returned to the living room with a syringe and a length of thin rubber tube. "I suggest we don't lose time," he smiled. "Are you ready?"  
Sherlock swallowed hard and then nodded. He shrugged off his jacket and slowly began rolling up his sleeve, not taking his eyes of the syringe.  
"Do you want to do it yourself, or shall I do it?" Moran asked.  
Sherlock considered a moment. Less risk in doing it himself. "I'll do it," he said and held out his hand. Moran gave him the tube and Sherlock tied it around his upper arm. He quickly located a vein, noticing that the old scars where all but gone, and took the syringe from Moran. Once it had pierced the skin and found the vein, he closed his eyes, breathed deeply and then slowly pushed the plunger.  
"There you go. Good boy," Moran said. "The boss will visit us later to hear what you think. Now you can just relax." He took the syringe from him and disappeared again.  
Sherlock looked towards the door. He could get up now. He might just be able to make it to the door and down to the street. Mycroft would spot him instantly and, considering they were probably already looking for him, he could be picked up in a matter of minutes and rushed to the hospital. Mycroft would be there before he came down and he'd be taken to rehab and put under guard so Moran could never touch him again. It was the right thing to do. The only logical thing to do. He made a half-hearted attempt to get to his feet when he realised that he had hesitated too long. He could hear Moran returning.  
"How do you feel?" Moran asked, immediately returning to the sofa and pushing Sherlock a little back.  
Sherlock groaned at the touch. "I feel fine..." he muttered.  
"Good. Why don't we have some fun while we wait for the boss?" Moran asked, his smile more becoming a devilish grin.  
Sherlock nodded. Yes. The boss showing up. That would be perfect. Finally getting a chance to put a face to the violence and manipulation. If only Moran would refrain from touching him. His nerves were practically tingling, as all his senses kicked into overdrive. He could hear the cars in the street, see the tiny cracks in the ceiling and every single gruesome detail of Moran's scar. Without thinking he raised his hand and let his fingertips slide over the damaged tissue. The flood of information was almost overwhelming.  
Moran grinned and leaned closer, one of his hands opening the button of his jeans. "Touch all you want. Maybe it feels even better if you're naked."  
Sherlock found himself nodding. It definitely would feel better. More skin. But no. That wasn't why he was doing this. He had to stay with Moran, had to learn who his boss was. Had to stay alive. Yet his curiosity seemed to have taken on a will of its own and slowly his hand moved down over Moran's body, his fingertips taking in all the different textures of skin and clothing.  
Moran chuckled and held his hand still. "Wait. Let me get my pants off for you."  
"No," Sherlock said, nodding. It was distracting him, all this touching. But maybe it was distracting Moran too. Maybe he could learn something more. "Why don't you do this yourself?" he muttered. "The testing..."  
"The boss wouldn't allow me. I've got to keep my mind clear. And my sight, for that matter." He stepped out of his pants and went to work on Sherlock's shirt, loosening two buttons before pulling it over his head.  
"He's very strict. Your boss," Sherlock mused as he let Moran undress him.  
"Oh yes. He has to be. Some business he has to run, hmm?" Moran answered, sitting down next to Sherlock when they were both naked.  
"Yeah," Sherlock said, placing his hand on Moran's chest. "I mean, I've seen what you do, but from what I hear that's only a fraction."  
"You just don't see all I do," Moran smirked, pushing Sherlock down on his back.  
"Yeah," Sherlock smiled and brushed a fingertip over Moran's nipple. He shivered at the sensation and did it again. "Like what?"  
"Don't you think we've done enough talking?" Moran pushed Sherlock's hand down on the seat of the sofa and leaned over him, fishing a condom up from the pile of clothes next to them.  
"We can talk and touch," Sherlock said lazily moving his hand to Moran's thigh, studying the muscles under the skin.  
"I'm more interested in touching," Moran said, pressing his thigh against Sherlock's fingers.  
"Right..." Sherlock giggled. "It's so easy being all big, claiming to have 'seen' stuff..." He pinched the skin, testing the tension.  
"You'll have to take my word." Moran moved so Sherlock's hand would wander closer to his cock.  
"Because your word is solid gold," Sherlock teased, obligingly moving his hand further up.  
"Yes." Moran rolled his hips.  
"Okay," Sherlock giggled, letting his finger change direction at the last moment and snake its way up along Moran's hip bone. "I'll just be very impressed of your implied accomplishments."  
"Very good." Moran grabbed his hand and forced it back to where he wanted it.  
"And you can just be pleased by my implied touches," Sherlock said, smirking, as he moved his hand up to Moran's stomach.  
Moran slapped him hard, then sat back and rolled the condom onto himself. "No."  
Sherlock's head exploded with white pain. He had not anticipated that, and for a moment he struggled to regain control of his thoughts. "You..." he muttered. "You're no fun..."  
"Not supposed to be fun, I told you before." Moran pushed Sherlock's legs wide and pressed in.  
"You... you really don't care? If I get anything out of it or not?" Sherlock asked, groaning at the intrusion which, though not exactly painful, felt unbearably intense.  
Moran snorted. "Why would I care?"  
"No reason. Just wondering," Sherlock muttered, studying the man's face. It was the first time he had had the opportunity to observe him during sex. It was strange. There was excitement in the man's features. But instead of arousal, it was mixed with... anger? Unfortunately, the anger also showed in the way Moran was fucking him hard.  
Suddenly it made sense. "He doesn't care, does he?" Sherlock asked, his eyes round with wonder. "He hurts you..."  
"What?" Moran stilled and looked down on him, narrowing his eyes.  
Sherlock frowned. His thoughts had already moved on. "What...?" Then he remembered. "Him... Your boss... He uses... hurts you..."  
Moran leaned in close to Sherlock's face. "Maybe," he hissed, "you should stop thinking about the boss. For your own sake."  
Sherlock realised what he had been doing. This wasn't Stevenson. Stevenson didn't see things like that. He closed his eyes. "Sorry," he muttered as he rolled his hips, hoping to get Moran back on a less dangerous track.  
Moran continued his thrusts, but they had become more forceful and angry, his fingers digging into Sherlock's hips hard enough to leave bruises. When Moran finished, he jumped up immediately and grabbed Sherlock's neck, pulling him upright. "You're too interested in the boss. I'm sure he can get the information he needs from you behind a locked door." He pushed the younger man through his bedroom door on the floor, without handing him his clothes, and locked it between them.  
It took a moment for Sherlock to orient himself. This was not right. He was supposed to see the man, not be locked up. He glanced around the familiar room. Only one window, that didn't open, and a 5 story drop down to the street. Too risky trying to escape that way. He could easily pick the lock, but it wouldn't do him any good, since Moran was right on the other side.   
The only option was to wait for the boss to show up and try to learn what he could about him from his choice of words and the sound of his voice and movements.  
Sherlock settled on the floor with his back to the door and closed his eyes, waiting.  
…  
Sherlock was woken up when Moran cursed loudly as he forcefully opened the door, leaving a sharp bruise on Sherlock’s back.   
"Out of my way," Moran bellowed, grabbing Sherlock by his arm and throwing him on the bed. He clearly was not in a good mood.  
Sherlock groaned and shielded his eyes. "Wha... What time is it?"  
"What do you need to know that for, then? Got to go somewhere?" Moran opened his belt and took it out.  
Sherlock eyed him nervously and scrambled to the far side of the bed. "Is... Is your boss coming?"  
"He's just out. About time." Without warning, Moran let the belt come down, low on Sherlock's stomach.  
Sherlock screamed in pain and curled up. "No..." he whimpered. "Please don't..."  
"Shut the fuck up!" The belt came down again and again, until after a few times Moran had had enough of it and threw it down, then heavily sat down on the edge of the bed.  
Sherlock lay gasping and whimpering. He studied Moran out of the corner of his eye. He had been right. Moran's boss abused him somehow and Moran took it out on whomever was at hand. Mycroft's agent had just been a normal hit. But, unfortunately for the victim, something had happened before Moran went on the job. Something that had filled him with rage. Rage that made him want to cause pain and fear in others.  
Case closed.  
But, of course, it only raised new questions. If his boss' abuse was the cause of Moran's actions, then did that mean that he had been working for him, back when he raped Miller and tortured those people in Afghanistan? Or was something else going on back then? If he was working for him, then why was he in Afghanistan? Was it part of some larger plot? Did Mycroft know? He had to find out. Had to learn more. And most of all he had to meet Moran's boss.  
"I... I'm sorry," he muttered and crawled across the bed to curl up, his head leaning on Moran’s thigh.  
Moran immediately brushed him off. "Why are you so interested in the boss?"  
"I'm not. I'm sorry. I'm just... interested in you." Sherlock tried to put his head in Moran's lap. "You work for him. That's the only reason I care about him."  
Moran looked down at him in disgust and pushed him away.  
"Do... Do you want me to leave?" Sherlock asked, looking hurt and confused. The latter wasn't really that hard, since he did not really know which answer he hoped for.  
Moran huffed. "I promised you could, didn't I? But wouldn't you rather stay and have another dose? It's possible. Quality seems good enough to pinch a bit from that customer." He seemed to calm down a little now he could talk business.  
Sherlock forced himself to smile. "I'd love to," he said. He moved closer once more and ran a fingertip down Moran's arm. "I promise not to talk this time," he purred. "If you don't want me to."  
"Now that would be a pleasant change," Moran said, rolling his eyes.  
Sherlock snorted. "Did I get talkative?" he asked. "I can't remember much, but I know I tend to babble on when I'm high."  
"Not only then. Just keep yourself together this time. I'll go get the stuff." Moran got up and left Sherlock.  
Sherlock lay back down on the bed, hating himself quite a bit. He kept thinking that it was for the case, but the words sounded extremely hollow inside his head.  
When Moran had handed him the syringe, he too lay down on the bed. "Put it on the nightstand when you're done, I'll get rid of it later. And be quiet, I need sleep," he said, closing his eyes.  
Sherlock nodded, looking at the needle in his hand. He could end it now. Wait until Moran was asleep and then just get dressed and walk out of here. He could even bring the drugs for evidence in a case against Moran. But it wouldn't be enough. As long as Moran's boss was still out there, it would never be enough. He had to know who the man was and how to bring him down too. So he had to stay. And staying meant being Stevenson. And being Stevenson meant getting high.  
A small part of him argued that Moran was asleep. He could flush the drugs and just fake a high when Moran woke up. But he couldn't risk it. He wasn't sure he was that good an actor. So with a sigh he got himself ready and administered the drugs.  
It was less blunt, riding on the after-effects from last night's high. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.  
He drew up the entire timeline in his mind. From Moran bothering Morstan in the pub, then assaulting her over the rape of Miller and then the discovery of his captives. He must have had them for quite a while. He had them when he molested Miller. Maybe even when he fondled Morstan in the jeep. And then he was discovered. And there was a court-martial. And the charges were dropped. This was arranged by his boss. But was it because Moran was already working for him back then? Or was it part of a 'head-hunting' campaign to get Moran to work for him? Sherlock was sure it was important, but he just didn't know enough to reach a definite conclusion. He turned it over and over in his mind until he wanted to scream with the futility of it.  
But that wouldn't do. How would he explain that to Moran? He looked around for something to distract him.  
Moran. He was right there, sleeping. Last night, Moran had been and too much of a distraction back then. He had made Sherlock careless. But now, such a distraction would be welcome. Surely Moran wouldn't mind, Sherlock thought as he leaned over him to get a condom out of the nightstand.  
Carefully, he opened Moran's jeans and pushed them out of the way.  
Sherlock got Moran's cock out, barely suppressing a snort at the man's lack of response. He began stroking him slowly and soon had him hard enough to roll on the condom.  
He leaned down and began sucking. It had the desired effect. Soon his mind was blissfully preoccupied with the physical sensations. He pulled up Moran's shirt enough to get his hand underneath it and let his fingers slide up the man's deliciously firm abdomen. Then suddenly he froze as his fingers hit a coarse but tight bandage, just above Moran's bellybutton. That had definitely not been there the day before. And it was damp, which meant he was still bleeding underneath. A cut. But not too deep, considering the force with which he had struck Sherlock earlier.  
He was considering the possibility of maybe loosening the bandage when he felt Moran's cock twitch between his lips and then his breathing change.  
Moran grunted sleepily, looking down at Sherlock's mouth. "What..." he mumbled.  
Sherlock looked up at him, not daring to move.  
"What the hell are you doing?" Moran asked, suddenly sitting up, slapping the hand on his stomach away and pushing Sherlock up by his hair. "Did I ask you anything?" As Sherlock started to pull away, he tightened his grip and roughly pushed his face in the direction of his cock again. "Oh no, if you want to suck so badly, you better open your mouth again."  
Whimpering from the pain in his scalp, Sherlock obediently opened his mouth and took Moran's cock in again.  
Moran relentlessly fucked his mouth, and when he had reached his orgasm, he pushed Sherlock off the bed. "Get out of my room and let me sleep," he growled, turning on his side and closing his eyes again.  
Slightly dazed and feeling rather sheepish, Sherlock made his way to the living room where he got dressed. He searched and found one of his old packs of cigarettes, that was still half full. He almost went out on the balcony, but thought better of it. Instead, he flopped down on the sofa, frowning at the stale taste and smoking while he pondered the meaning of Moran's wound. It was obviously caused by his mysterious boss. But how? And why? Had they fought? Over what? Or had it been a punishment of sorts? Or erotic knife-play? He needed to know more. He needed to meet the man.  
...  
"Stevenson!" Moran's voice thundered a few hours later from the bedroom.  
Sherlock jerked awake. For a perilous moment, he wondered who Stevenson was. Then his brain caught up. "Ye... Yes boss?" he muttered as he slowly got to his feet.  
"Make me some lunch!"  
Sherlock groaned. His head was pounding and the daylight through the windows felt like shards of glass in his eyes. "Yes, boss," he said as he headed for the kitchen. "Anything particular?"  
"Just make something. And fast," his voice sounded.  
"With meat in it?" Sherlock asked, smirking a little as he opened the fridge.  
Moran didn't think that question worth more than an annoyed grunt.  
Since neither of them had had breakfast, Sherlock settled on a traditional fry-up. As the bacon cooked, he quickly whisked the eggs and sliced some tomatoes. Ten minutes later he carried two large plates of eggs, bacon, beans, fried tomatoes and toast to the table. "Do you want tea or coffee?" he called as he heard the water getting close to boiling point.  
Moran stepped out of his room, his clothes changed. "Coffee," he said, taking a chair and immediately attacking one of the plates.  
Sherlock quickly prepared the coffee and then joined Moran at the table. "Sorry..." he muttered. "For waking you earlier."  
Moran huffed. "No talking."  
Sherlock nodded and began eating. One side effect of the drugs was that they actually increased his appetite. At first, anyway.  
"Don't have much work to do," Moran said. "Got a text from the boss giving me the day off."  
Sherlock nodded again, but didn't speak or look up.  
"I'm going to take a bath," Moran announced when he had finished his breakfast, pushing his empty plate a little forward on the table.  
"Okay," Sherlock said, picking up both plates as he stood.  
"You can leave the dishes until afterwards," he said.  
Sherlock frowned. "After..." His mind really was sluggish this morning. "Oh... You want me to join you?"  
Moran rolled his eyes. "Do you need a written request or what?"  
Sherlock grinned a little sheepishly and ran a hand through his hair. "No... Of course not..."  
"Then come along." Moran walked to the bathroom.  
Sherlock followed, smiling. He couldn't have asked for a better opportunity to study Moran's injuries.  
"Undress," Moran commanded, turning on the water.  
"Yes, Sir," Sherlock said, hiding a smirk.  
Once he was undressed, Moran lowered himself in the bath tub, leaving Sherlock to stand next to it. "Wash my back," he ordered.  
Sherlock found a sponge and soap and began cleaning Moran's back gently. He hadn't had a good look at it before, and took his time to study the many faint scars. Some looked like abrasions and the colonel had once taken a bullet to the side. But most were from cuts. Long straight lines on his shoulders and upper back. They were definitely not inflicted during combat.  
"Are you afraid that you'll hurt the dirt, or what?" Moran asked. "I'll wash my own hair if you can't do any better. You go fetch a condom and return."  
Sherlock cursed under his breath as he got to his feet. He went to the bedroom, found a condom. Once again, he considered bolting, but knew he wouldn't get far. And he still hadn't learned enough about Moran and his boss. So, after allowing himself a brief moment of peace, he returned to the bathroom. "Here, boss," he muttered as he held the condom out to Moran.  
"Right," Moran said, shifting a little in the bath. "You can suck me first, since you like that so much."  
Sherlock frowned and looked at Moran's crotch. "But... You're in the water, Sir..."  
Moran rolled his eyes. "Does everything have to be a problem with you? I can sit up, can't I? Get in here."  
"Yes, boss," Sherlock muttered, and he carefully got into the tub, kneeling between Moran's legs.  
Moran sat up on his knees. "What are you waiting for?"  
Sherlock refrained from saying 'That!' as he grabbed a nearby towel, dried Moran's cock and rolled the condom on.  
"As if you're not going to make it wet now," Moran said.  
"I'm not going to make it wet under the condom," Sherlock muttered as he bent down and began sucking, effectively preventing himself from making more comments.  
Moran frowned at him for a while, before his expression relaxed and he began bucking his hips.  
Sherlock adjusted the angle and focused on following Moran's rhythm. He knew the man's wishes and habits so well by now, that he could let his mind wander while still performing to his satisfaction. He could feel his own body craving the drugs. He was already getting in too deep and he wasn't sure he was any closer to finding out who Moran was working for. But he had discovered a new and sinister aspect to their relationship. It was not just that of boss and employee. Something more was going on. Whether it was emotional or sexual, Sherlock did not know, but it was clear from Moran's scars and wounds that he was letting his boss cut his skin without making any form of resistance. Was he accepting punishment or was it something deeper? Darker?  
"Stop," Moran said suddenly, pushing against Sherlock's shoulder.  
Sherlock sat back on his heels, slightly confused. He had almost forgotten what he was doing and where he was.  
"Turn and get down," Moran ordered.  
Sherlock turned around, kneeling in the middle of the tub, supporting his hand on the edge. "Like this?”  
"Hm. For now it will do." Moran grabbed his hips and pulled him backwards, then pushed in.  
Sherlock hardly made a sound. He was used to Moran's abusive style by now and the pain he had suffered in the beginning had turned to a sense of vague discomfort. He was able to almost immediately disassociate himself from the situation and once again delve into his analyses.  
But after a while, Moran began to thrust harder and he pushed Sherlock further down, not paying attention to the fact that his nose was almost under the water. Sherlock was drawn abruptly back to the present as he spluttered and tried to pull himself up and out of the water. Moran pushed him even further down, fucking him hard.  
Sherlock kept struggling for a while, but then, as he managed to push himself up just enough to be able to catch a quick breath of air now and then, he tried to hold still. No reason to give Moran any motive to keep this going any longer than necessary. Watching 'Stevenson' fight for his life might just be his idea of the perfect shag.  
Sure enough, Moran was soon speeding up and then stilled, keeping Sherlock under water. Then he suddenly let go.  
Sherlock pulled himself up with a gasp. "Was that..." he gasped, "really necessary?"  
"Oh, it helped," Moran said airily. "Clean yourself up and give me some space. Then I'll get you your next dose."  
Sherlock retreated to the furthest end of the tub, got a sponge and quickly washed himself. Then he got up and found a towel. As he dried himself, he asked, "Is it the same stuff?"  
"Yeah. Not good enough for you?" Moran looked up at him, stretched out in the bath.  
"No," Sherlock said quickly. "It's very good. That's why I asked."  
Moran grunted and dried himself off. Without even getting dressed, he went for a syringe. "Keep yourself busy for a few hours and don't disturb me," he warned.  
"Yes, boss," Sherlock answered, already busy preparing a vein.  
…  
"Please..." Sherlock pleaded. He was trembling with pent up energy and the effects of three days without sleep. The last of the 'sample' had been used over 36 hours ago and he was in full withdrawal. He had been on the verge of throwing a tantrum the previous night, but Moran had effectively put a stop to that kind of behaviour with a slap so hard it had sent him to the floor and made his ear ring for several hours afterwards.  
During the night, he had had a bout of acute depression and Moran had shut him in the bathroom when he got sick of his moaning. When he let him out this morning, Moran had mentioned that they might receive a new sample during the day. Around noon, he had gone out and been away for several hours, which Sherlock had spent curled up on the sofa, chain smoking his way through an entire pack of cigarettes. Now Moran was back, and from the smug grin on his face as he walked by, completely ignoring Sherlock, the detective suspected that not only did he have the drugs, but he was going to make Sherlock beg for it.  
And if that was what it took, that was what Sherlock would do. He got to his feet and followed Moran to the kitchen. "Please..." he begged, again, as he watched the man calmly preparing to make tea.  
Moran rolled his eyes. "Man, you can nag."  
"Sorry..." Sherlock looked down at his feet. He could not afford to antagonise Moran. Not now.  
"What do you want, anyway? What use is saying 'please' if you don't ask a question?" Moran asked. "Easy to misunderstand you this way..."   
Sherlock cringed. "The drugs... Don't you want me to... test them?"  
Moran chuckled. "Suddenly you're all helpful. It took some persuasion to have the boss send a new sample, you know. Might reduce your wage a bit."  
"Fine," Sherlock said. "I'm just glad I can help... Is... Is the boss satisfied with my work?" He had not dared to mention Moran's boss since the night he had visited while Sherlock was locked in the bedroom, but now that Moran had brought it up, he couldn't miss the opportunity to maybe learn a little more.  
Moran huffed. "As far as you can call shooting up 'work'... You'd be doing it anyway, wouldn't you? He hardly needs to pat you on the head and tell you you're a good boy for it."  
"I wouldn't be doing it anyway," Sherlock huffed. "I told you. I'm clean. I'm doing this for you and that damn boss of yours. I'm risking my health testing your merchandise, right?"  
"So I don't need to give you anything now. I could ask someone else."  
If Moran had someone else ready, then why had it been so important to have Sherlock do the testing? He decided to call what was probably a bluff. "Fine. You do that. I'll just head on home then, shall I?" He looked at Moran for a moment, then turned and walked towards the front door.  
Moran laughed. "You're not going anywhere. But that doesn't mean I need to give you anything. I can just lock you up and leave you there in your own shit."  
Sherlock glared at him. "Go ahead," he said. "If you think that'll be of any use to you."  
"And a moment ago you were begging to help us." Moran chuckled. "You want the drugs."  
"Of course I want the drugs," Sherlock snapped. "But if you don't want to give them to me, not much I can do, is there?"  
"I'm just not sure you've deserved them." Moran sipped his tea and grinned.  
"Deserved?" Sherlock frowned, barely containing his anger. "Haven’t I done everything you asked of me? Taken everything you've done to me?"  
Moran shrugged. "You could always do more. Convince me that I should give you what you want."  
"I..." Sherlock bit his lip as he realised that what he was about to say was, in fact, the truth. "I'll do anything. Anything you ask of me. Just... Please... Let me have some first..."  
Moran smirked. "Anything, right? I'll keep you to that promise, you know. You'll regret it."  
"Anything. I swear. Just... don't make me wait any longer. Please?" Sherlock had to fight the impulse to actually get down on his knees.  
"Alright." Moran looked amused, no doubt thinking of what he would make Sherlock do. As always, he disappeared to get a syringe from wherever he hid the stuff, then returned and handed it to Sherlock.  
When he had discarded of the syringe, Moran made himself comfortable in the sofa. "Get me a drink and then come sit with me," he ordered, turning on the television.  
Sherlock got to his feet, feeling a bit unsteady. That in itself wasn't so strange, considering his condition before the injection, but the usual clarity hadn't kicked in yet. By now, his mind should be shedding its usual clutter, but it seemed just as bogged down as ever. Shaking his head, he made his way to the cupboard and got out the usual bottle and a glass. As he turned, the glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor.  
"Fucking idiot," Moran mumbled, rolling his eyes. "Don't make a mess when you clean that up."  
"Yes, boss," Sherlock slurred, feeling slow and stupid. He got another glass out and, carefully avoiding the shards on the floor, made his way over to the sofa.  
Moran pulled up his eyebrows and poured his own drink. "You're just going to leave it like that?" he asked, indicating the broken glass.  
"No," Sherlock muttered and walked back to the broken glass. He got down on his knees and began picking up the shards. This was stupid, he thought. He should just tell Moran to stuff it and get the hell out of here. Leave town and never have to see the bastard again. Or his stupid brother. He could get in touch with John again. Maybe get another chance to meet him. He smiled but then gasped as he felt a sharp pain in his hand. He lifted it awkwardly and frowned at the small piece of glass, stuck in his palm, blood already beginning to pool around the edges of the cut. "Ouch..." he muttered.  
"I told you not to make a mess!" Moran jumped up, looking angry. "Go to the bathroom and take care of that. I'll put the glass away. How stupid are you?"  
"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, and he tried to get to his feet without using the bleeding hand. He couldn’t quite figure out how to do it.  
As Sherlock was still sitting down and looking helpless when Moran had finished cleaning up the glass, the colonel sighed. "Right. You're not going to be much use tonight, are you? Stay here, I don't want blood stains on the carpet." He went to the bathroom for a bandage, and then, without warning, he pulled the glass out of Sherlock's palm, causing the blood to flow out more quickly.  
Sherlock cried out at the sudden pain and tried to withdraw his hand.  
Moran held it and looked up at him. "Stop it." He cleaned the wound, then applied the bandage to stop the bleeding. "There. Now better don't touch anything." He grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him to the sofa.  
Sherlock slumped down, looking at his hand. The bandage looked good. Almost professional. Moran was not a doctor. John was a doctor. He would heal people to help them. Moran had done rudimentary medical care for his victims in Afghanistan. To make them last longer. Now he was making Sherlock last longer. Though the clouds in Sherlock's mind made him think that a bandage wasn't going to help make him last. Not this time.  
Moran sat down next to him. "Alright, so how do you feel? Is the effect the same as earlier?"  
"No... Definitely different..." Sherlock felt like his tongue had a mind of its own. Was it making the right sounds? He wasn't quite sure.  
"I wonder what he has given you." Moran pointed at Sherlock's hand. "Does it hurt?"  
Sherlock looked at his hand. "I've had worse," he said, dispassionately. It did hurt, but it didn't really matter. "Anything for a case, right?"  
"A case?" Moran asked. "Is that what you call the cocaine?"  
"Cocaine," Sherlock huffed. "That is just a means to an end, right? The best way to learn more."  
"Ugh, don't get philosophic with me," Moran huffed. "What do you want to learn about anyway?"  
"You," Sherlock said, looking up at Moran. "Your boss. Your job... Why you did it."  
"Did what?"  
Sherlock started to realise that this was probably not a good direction for the conversation to go in, so he shrugged. "I don't know," he muttered. He felt sleepy, so he leaned against Moran, closing his eyes.  
"Did what?" Moran repeated, only lightly shaking Sherlock's shoulder so he would stay awake, but without pulling away.  
"I don't know," Sherlock insisted, moaning in protest at being kept from sleep.   
"You can sleep if you tell me," Moran said softly.  
Sleep sounded nice. Brilliant even. Sherlock smiled. "Why you hurt him. The agent..." He nuzzled against Moran's chest. He could definitely sleep here. If only the questions stopped.  
"What agent?"  
"My brother's," Sherlock said, getting a bit annoyed. How thick was this man? Or did he go around killing government agents every other day?  
Moran pulled up his eyebrows. "Interesting. I thought you only had a sister... Who is he, that brother of yours?"  
"Most... dangerous... man in Britain..." Sherlock giggled.  
"Well, well." Moran pulled up his eyebrows. "Do you still remember your name? You know, with the drugs, I'm just checking..."  
My name...?" Sherlock's head was heavy and his thoughts had slowed to what felt like a crawl. "Something... Stevenson...?"  
Moran nodded slowly. "Are you sure?"  
Sherlock thought about it. Yes. It was definitely Stevenson. Wasn't it? But the first name eluded him. Hopefully Moran wouldn't notice. "Yes...?" He frowned. That had not come out as confident as intended.  
"And your brother's?" Moran asked.  
Sherlock giggled. "I usually call him 'Piss off'."  
"But that's not his name. Tell me," Moran said, brushing the hair away from Sherlock's forehead.  
Sherlock hummed at the touch. It made him feel safe. Cared for. "No, John," he muttered. "I don't want to talk about him now. He's not important."  
"John? I'm not... Who is John?" Moran continued stroking his face.  
Sherlock smiled. "My John... My doctorcaptain..."  
Moran pulled up his eyebrows. "Watson?"   
Sherlock bit his lip. No. Moran shouldn't be talking about John. John did not like Moran. "N... No..." he muttered.  
"Is he your boyfriend?"  
His boyfriend? What a silly question. John was his friend. His kind and handsome doctor friend, who could take care of him if he would be here now. He needed a doctor. Not this man, though the way he stroked his cheek felt really good. If only it had been John. That would have felt even better. He realised that Moran was still waiting for an answer. To what? Oh, yes, of course. "N... No..."  
"You know," Moran said, shifting a little and pushing Sherlock more upright, "I don't really like it." He was still stroking Sherlock's face, over his cheekbone down his jaw. "Your friend, your brother... One might think you're here to spy on me." His voice was still soft, almost tender, but suddenly his hand was around Sherlock's throat and closing, and as he shifted to have more room, his other hand joined in.  
Sherlock gasped. This felt very wrong. He tried to push Moran away. To protest. But he didn't seem to have the strength. Or to be able to speak. The world, which had already gone fuzzy and distant, began sinking into a dense, imposing darkness.


	13. Chapter 13

No new messages. It had been almost a week since John had heard from Sherlock, and he wondered what the man was up to now. Although, according to his stories, it could just have been his brother who had been childish enough to take his laptop away. Still, John had felt a little miffed the first few days, that once again Sherlock didn't feel the need to tell him anything. Ridiculously enough, John missed him. With everything that was on his mind these days, he could have used someone to talk to, but he didn't feel like sending an email that wasn't an answer to one of Sherlock's. The last that man needed was an ego boost, and John didn't like to come across as needy. But maybe it had been long enough now to at least send a mail asking if everything was alright. Knowing Sherlock's lifestyle, anything could have happened. He decided to send something later.  
At least he could talk to Mary now. Things had gotten a lot more comfortable with her after their shag a few nights ago, but John felt incredibly guilty. He still noticed that she was frowning at him or losing her patience when he was distracted again, lost in his worries about Miller, Harry and Sherlock. As expected, he hadn't heard from Harry again, and Miller's condition was still critical. She understood, of course, but he felt how she expected more of him. He knew what she wanted. And he just couldn't give it. He tried to keep his distance, and as such, he couldn't support her as much as he wanted to, knowing that she had her own worries.  
He pushed his chair back and stretched. He had promised Mary to visit, and he had promised himself to talk with her about their relationship. He had to, and yet he still didn't feel brave enough.  
...  
Mary looked tired when she opened her door, but she smiled and kissed him as she pulled him into her room.  
John gave her an uncomfortable smile and didn't sit next to her on the bed. "Listen, Mary..." he started, deciding to break the awkward subject right away before he could scramble back again.  
She sighed. "Let me guess. Bad news?"  
"No... Well, nothing happened. But I think we need to talk."  
"That usually is bad news," she said, attempting a small laugh.  
"Yes, listen- I just think that I can't give you everything... everything you deserve." John cleared his throat. Alright, that was out. It was a start.  
She frowned. "And what exactly is it you think I deserve?"  
"Er. I just mean... I'm your friend, but I feel like I'm not being honest to you, doing... this." He waved between them.  
"Oh? I thought we were being completely honest," she said, her tone becoming increasingly cold. "It's just sex between friends right? No feelings or obligations, right?"  
"Yes. Yes, it is. But I thought you... I mean, I'm not even sure I can keep doing this myself without... getting feelings in the way." He bit his lip.  
"You thought I'd fallen for you?" she said, her voice completely lacking emotion. "That I was not capable of having a physical relationship without getting attached?"   
"I- no, it's just- it's just as much my fault." He sighed. "Do you really think this is still a good idea?"  
She shrugged. "I have been enjoying your company. And the sex has been good. But I have had a feeling that you have been quite... distracted... when we were together lately. Maybe it's me who cannot be everything that you need?"  
"No, Mary, sorry, I really should have made clear that I've enjoyed it too. Maybe a little too much, even. I'm just not sure... I mean, there's so much going on now, and right now I hardly know what my feelings are doing and it doesn't feel fair to you."  
She nodded. "Maybe you're right. I just know that what we've had is more or less the only thing that has made me feel good for a very long time. Since... Since Moran I think. But, I see your point. We may be playing with more than we can handle. Considering the circumstances and everything." She looked up at him. "But damn it, John. Was it that insignificant to you? Can you just walk away?"   
John closed his eyes and sighed. Shit. "I just don't want to make things worse," he mumbled.  
"So you'll wreck them completely? Wise decision, Doctor Watson," Mary said as she got to her feet and walked to the furthest end of the room, keeping her back to him.  
"God, no, Mary. I just want to be friends. I'm so sorry, I've really messed this up."  
"I think we're equally responsible for the mess," she muttered. Then she sighed and turned towards him. "It's fine, John," she said, sounding very, very tired. "Just... just go."  
John nodded. "Sorry. Goodnight, Mary."  
She turned away again. "Goodnight, John," she mumbled, sounding like her throat was becoming too tight.  
As he left the room, John felt horrible. And then even worse when he realised that he hadn't even felt so bad when he had had to shoot an enemy soldier to get to his patients. What kind of a person was he? Who used their best friend for sex only to break their heart later? Who worried more about a complete stranger than about his drunk sister?  
Back in his own room, John sat down heavily and glared at his computer. A complete stranger that didn't even write him if he didn't beg him to. He wasn't even sure he could consider Sherlock a friend. Then why was he always thinking about him, sometimes even wondering what the detective would think or say about certain things he did? Not that he wondered right now. He had just proven to himself that he was even more stupid than Sherlock could ever suspect.  
Still, he decided to send him a mail now. If nothing else, it would perhaps clear the sharp-edged clutter his mind was right now.  
   
To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Where are you?  
   
Hey, it's been a while again, and I thought you'd let me know if there were any changes in what you were doing. Are you still with your brother? Is there a new case? Have you found the witness?

Things aren't so good here. Well, not at all, actually. I still don't know if Miller will survive and I'll keep feeling guilty, I guess. I shouldn’t have meddled, or at least not have brought the memories back to him. No word from my sister of course. And now I've managed to hurt the only support I have here, so badly that she sent me away in tears. I never should have started that thing with Mary. You were right about her, I'm afraid, but if I'm honest I'm just as confused myself. Probably we could have a good relationship, that’s the worst. Just not under these circumstances. Our friendship is worth too much to ruin it and yet that seems to be exactly the thing that I'm doing. I really don't know how I can make it right. I don't want to lie to her, but right now I've taken away the only thing that kept both of us going.

John read what he had written. A few questions about Sherlock, which were none of his business, and then a lot of nagging about his oh so miserable life. Great, really the kind of mail anyone would dream of getting. And then of course there was no way he would mention how much he was thinking of Sherlock and the role that those thoughts played in his doubts about Mary. Anyone would be freaked out at that. He deleted the whole thing and sighed. Probably it wouldn't even make a difference if he sent a mail to ask what Sherlock was doing. If the detective wasn't mailing, that meant he was busy, and probably he just wasn't interested. He had contacted John for information to begin with. Probably he wasn't looking for a friend, certainly not so far away. It should have been clear when he hadn't shown up in London. If he didn't even want to meet, he certainly wouldn't want to hear all about John's failures. John huffed. To think he had been wondering what Sherlock smelled like while the other didn't even want to see him. No. The best he could do now was go to bed and leave everyone alone. And probably it was better to put Sherlock out of his head completely, anyway. If all that his contact did, was confusing him or worrying him, it would only hurt him more in the end. Even being alone would be better than that.  
...   
It was only 4 in the morning when John was woken up by a tumult in the corridor, right before his door swung open.  
“Watson! You’re needed!”  
John couldn’t see who was calling him in the dark, but he was already out of bed, pulling up the trousers of his uniform and ready to go within the minute.  
He ran out and couldn’t suppress a wince when he saw Mary in the jeep where he had been directed to. “Can someone tell me what exactly is going on?” he asked as he climbed in.  
"We're needed a few towns over," the driver answered as he started the jeep and headed for the gate. "Apparently a feud between two families is heating up, and there is a high risk that it will be used by a nearby militant group to take over the village. Hopefully our presence will keep things from getting out of hand. But just in case things do go wrong, I'm glad you're with us, Captain."  
The man sitting next to John nodded in agreement, but Mary just kept looking straight ahead.  
"I hope I won't be needed," John answered, as he always did when it was very probably he would be. He glanced at Mary.   
As if sensing his gaze, Mary looked at him briefly, then turned away. Her eyes were red and she looked tired, almost ill. John felt another pang of guilt go through him and he sighed.  
The soldier sitting next to him frowned. "Tired, captain?" he asked.  
John shrugged. "I'll be fine. It's never fun to be called out of bed for something like this, but it's our duty." He managed a small smile.  
They drove for a while in silence, then suddenly the driver slowed down.  
"What’s wrong?" Mary asked.  
"There seems to be something in the road." The soldier squinted. "It could just be a dead animal, but we can never be too careful. We're going to have to call in the bomb squad." He stopped the car at the required distance. "Sorry, everybody. But if you want, you can use it as a chance to stretch your legs or whatever..." He grinned slightly as the soldier next to John got out and hurried towards a tree a little back along the road.  
John frowned at the spot on the road, but he couldn't make out much of it. As Mary walked a little away, he went after her and gently took her arm, pulling her back. "Mary, I just want to say-"  
A shot sounded and Mary's eyes went wide as she was hit in the back.  
"Down!" John yelled, but even as he moved to follow his own order, there was another shot and pain exploded in his left shoulder while he fell on the ground. Everything was red glowing noise and, collecting all of his power, he screamed as he turned himself towards Mary.  
"Mary," he panted.  
She just stared at him blankly.  
"Please, Mary... I'm so sorry..." Then he coughed, pressing his right hand against his shoulder, and everything went black.  
…  
The first time John woke up, he only registered the fierce, stinging pain in his shoulder and the noise of a helicopter. He passed out after ten seconds.  
The next times, there were the smell and the pale walls of a hospital. He was lying in a bed, and that seemed a good idea because he wanted to sleep. Reality had nothing to offer for him. When he woke up, he only wanted to return to his dreams, which were exciting and nice most of the time. But every time he woke up, he hardly remembered them.  
One time when he woke up, there was more clarity. As if the almost pleasant doze had left him. There were footsteps in his room, and as he opened his eyes properly, he saw that a nurse was straightening his sheets.  
"Welcome, Captain Watson," she said with a heavy accent that John didn't recognise.  
He blinked slowly and tested clearing his throat. "What... happened?" he asked hoarsely, but immediately he regretted the question. Memories flooded back. God, Mary. How was she? Had she made it?  
The nurse smiled at him and pointed at herself. "Not good at the talking, better at caring. I go, I send someone for you to tell."  
John nodded, leaning back against his pillow with a sigh. He closed his eyes. Sleep didn't come.  
"Hello, Captain," a friendly and somewhat familiar voice said after a short while.  
John looked up and found himself answering her smile. His eyes quickly shifted to the badge on the nurse’s chest. "Hello, Tara," he croaked. He knew her. Well, her body at least. He bit his lip when he remembered he had been boasting about her to Mary, all those weeks ago in the Pub. Or how long had it been? How long had he been here in the hospital?  
“How do you feel?” Tara came closer and checked something on a piece of paper she was holding.  
He shrugged. He didn’t want to think about that question.  
“Do you remember what happened?” she asked.  
“They shot... us.” John closed his eyes. Sleep sleep sleep. Please.  
“The bullet in your shoulder shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. It took several hours before they found you, and you were in a bad state with the blood loss and all that. Your immune system was down and you caught pneumonia. It was a very close thing. You’re lucky you’ve survived, but you’ve been out for almost six weeks,” she informed him.  
Apparently the short time they had spent together in a bed in Kandahar had been enough to get to know him. He preferred to get the facts quickly and honestly. But actually the news about his own health didn’t interest him all that much right now.  
“The others?” he whispered.  
Her face became a mix of sympathy and the dread of giving someone bad news. “I’m really sorry. I heard the three others around the jeep didn’t make it.”  
Panic went through him. “Lieutenant Morstan?”  
She looked down and shook her head.  
He stared into space. It didn’t really get to him, except that his heart was beating way too fast. All he knew was that there was a reason to be grateful that his brain was working so slowly. He didn’t want to process this.  
“Can I get you anything? Do you want to be alone?” she asked.  
He shrugged.  
“Ring if you need something. A doctor will be here to check on you soon.”  
He nodded.  
Once he was alone again, he closed his eyes. Immediately the image of what had happened began playing before his eyes. Mary turning around as he pulled her back by her arm. The look of surprise and pain in her face, right before she fell. Then his own pain, his panic as it meant he couldn’t do anything for her. The two bullets had followed each other almost immediately. The image rewound. He saw the bullet fly towards Mary and suddenly he realised that he was the one who had pulled her into its path. God. It had been meant for him. Why else would the next one have come so fast? He had practically killed her. If he had just left matters the way they were, if he hadn’t messed up their relationship in the first place... It was all his fault. She would have survived and he would have been dead. Tears escaped his eyes and he winced at the pain in his shoulder as he tried to turn his head around so the pillow would dry them. Six weeks. The most painful part of his recovery had probably already passed while he was mainly unconscious. He would have deserved the pain.  
When he finally fell asleep, hours later, it didn’t take long before he was awake again, crying out as everything happened again before his eyes. Sleep was no longer a place to which he could escape.  
After a few more days, the doctors decided he was stable enough for a transfer to London.  
Afterwards, he didn’t remember much of the flight. At some point he had fallen asleep, thankfully without nightmares for once, and when he woke up, he was alone, in a rather nice room as hospital rooms went.  
The days were incredibly long and boring. There was hardly anything he could do, except his physiotherapy exercises to slowly bring his left shoulder back to life. For the rest he just lay there watching telly and thinking far too much. He didn’t get any visitors. He wondered if anyone here knew what had happened to him and that he was back in London. His sister was probably warned, but couldn’t be bothered to visit him and she certainly wouldn’t pass the message to Clara. But when he could finally get his hands on a laptop, he couldn’t bring himself to write to anyone. ‘I got shot, pity me!’, god no. He couldn’t bear the idea.  
Sherlock hadn’t mailed anymore. John couldn’t help but wonder how he was, yet he didn’t write to him either.  
Now and then, a psychiatrist came to bother him. John didn’t tell her anything.  
“You really should talk to someone,” she told him, a little desperate. “Is there no-one you can contact? No-one you could tell the things you don’t want to tell me?”  
He shrugged. For a moment he thought of Sherlock. He could listen, could even give advice in his own peculiar way. He missed talking to him. A lot. But then he realised how little he knew about the man. He couldn’t give an address or a phone number. Only his email address, and apparently the detective had lost interest in that.  
“My sister-in-law,” he said eventually. Well, ex-sister-in-law, but the psychiatrist didn’t need to know all that.  
He was happier than he would have expected when Clara walked in, even though things were awkward. Clara clearly didn’t know how to behave around him and how much she could say. It was as if she believed he was so broken she couldn’t tell him anything without hurting him. Maybe that was what he looked like. Still, he made her promise she’d come back. Even if he hadn’t talked about anything that was really on his mind, he felt a little better after her visit.  
After that, he took more effort to listen to his psychiatrist. She told him to write down what he felt to give it a place. He stared at a laptop screen for an hour and felt ridiculous.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock was pacing his room, as he had for what felt like an eternity. Every time he passed the window, he'd glare out at the wooded slope that led from the main building down towards the large lake. He knew that this was an aesthetically pleasing sight and that it was intended to bring the current inhabitants of the large building solace and peace of mind.  
Personally, Sherlock thought it might as well have been a parking lot or a brick wall for all the good it did him. It was not Baker Street. It was not London.  
He had been in this place for over two months now. And before that, he had been confined to his hospital room under constant guard by both police and Mycroft's agents. And worst of all, during those first two weeks, his brother seemed to have managed to leave the governing of the country in less capable hands, so he could bother his little brother during his every waking moment.  
Not that there had been that many. Whatever had been mixed with the drugs Moran had given him, had almost killed him. Moran strangling him would only have been speeding things up.  
Sherlock touched his throat. The marks of Moran's hands had long ago faded, but he still remembered the darkness creeping up on him. And he still remembered how the drugs had made him not really care.  
He should have known at once that something was very wrong when the effects had set in. But the initial rush had been as usual and the first unexpected effect had been that odd sense of detachment. Of not caring.  
The things he had said. The memory could still make him cringe. How could he have let it come to that? To have let his guard down so completely?  
Well, because of the drugs, obviously. But still. He could not help but blame himself that he had not realised what was happening. That he had not tried to fight it, but rather just surrendered to the drug and to Moran. Ironically, the two seemed in many ways to be the same.  
He broke off this futile line of thought, and focused on piecing together the things he still was not certain about. He thought back to when he had woken up in the hospital.  
Mycroft had, of course, been there, and told him, in rather superior tones, that his men had gotten there just in time. Had they not burst in, Moran would have killed him within minutes, or the drugs in less than an hour.  
Unfortunately, Moran had heard them approach and had managed to get away before they entered the flat. Sherlock had demanded to be taken back there. Undoubtedly he'd be able to reveal Moran's escape route. Surely the colonel would not return to the flat, but it might give them useful information for future encounters.  
But the doctors as well as Mycroft had been adamant. He was not to leave the hospital any time soon. And when he did, he was going straight to rehab at a secured location.  
The second thing Mycroft had revealed, was how he had finally known for certain that Sherlock was being kept at Moran's place, and that his health and most likely his life was in danger. He had, naturally, suspected for some time that his brother had ended up in the clutches of the man once again, but without certainty, he could not justify a move that could, potentially, lead to open war between Britain's two most dangerous men. So Mycroft had bided his time, trying to determine if Sherlock was in the flat or not.  
Then he had been brought information that Moran's employer had gotten his hands on a new experimental drug, meant for use in the military. It was intended for use in interrogation situations, rendering the subject distracted and uninhibited, negating their will to keep secrets. The only problem was that it was lethal in 90% of the tests. When it became evident that a small amount of the drug had been mixed with cocaine and a courier was spotted arriving at Moran's flat, Mycroft could not hesitate any longer.  
The two brothers had then disagreed strongly about whether Moran had known about the 'additives'. Mycroft was convinced that Moran had received the altered narcotics with instructions to interrogate Sherlock and gain as much knowledge about Mycroft as possible. Sherlock had argued that Moran believed his cover and had no reason, before the drugs took effect, to suspect that Stevenson had been hiding anything of importance. Mycroft hinted that Sherlock just did not want to admit that Moran had seen through his disguise or, sounding disgustingly sympathetic, that he actually believed that their 'relationship' had been genuine and that Moran in any way cared for him. Sherlock had called him a prat and tossed several rather expensive pieces of hospital equipment in his general direction.  
He had, obviously, still suffered side effects from the drug at the time or he would not have overreacted so. And he would not have missed.  
Another side effect had been that his recollection of the events was not as clear as he would have wished. He did remember many embarrassing aspects, not the least how he had been craving Moran's caresses and how they had been enough to draw every dangerous secret from him. At least he suspected they had. He was not sure what he had said exactly. He didn't think that he had mentioned Mycroft's or his own name. But he had probably said enough that Moran would have been able to work it out by now. He had obviously said enough to make it clear that he was not who he had pretended to be. That his real motive for working for Moran had been to investigate him. Spy on him.  
But what bothered Sherlock the most was that he could remember he had been thinking about John while Moran was questioning him. Yet he did not know if he had talked about him. If he had given any information that could point to the army doctor. If he had, surely John would be in terrible danger.  
So, the moment he had realised this, which was exactly three and a half days after he had been taken to the hospital, he had told Mycroft everything and begged him to get in touch with John as well as his superiors, and warn them that Moran would be coming for him.  
Mycroft had promised to do so, and had later reported back that appropriate steps had been taken. Something in his demeanor had bothered Sherlock, but he was feeling too miserable, suffering a whole new brand of withdrawal, to question him further at the time.  
Later, when he was able to sit and even move about a little, he had done his best to gain access to a smartphone or computer. Anything capable of sending an email, so he himself could inform John of the danger. But Mycroft had been very, very thorough this time, and he could not even get his hands on an old push-button telephone. Nor could he escape the constant scrutiny of Mycroft's men and the hospital staff for longer than an ordinary visit to the bathroom. They had actually once threatened to come in when they thought he spent too long on the toilet.  
It had been three months since he had last communicated with John. Any notion of the man perhaps considering Sherlock his friend had, of course, been abandoned. That was okay. Sherlock didn't need friends. And maintaining one was obviously too much work. But he would have liked to know if John helping him had caused him too much inconvenience or possibly danger.  
Mycroft had restricted himself to weekly visits now, and Sherlock made it a point to nag him about being allowed to contact John at least every five minutes during his one hour stays. It had not worked yet, but he had no intention of giving up.  
As he heard his brother's footsteps approaching in the hall, he turned around, ready for another battle.  
"Good afternoon, Sherlock," Mycroft greeted him, immediately glancing through the window at the lake as he walked in. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"  
"Probably," Sherlock answered. "Until you decided to wreck it."  
"Oh brother, you'll end up happier to see me than you could imagine."  
Sherlock almost snorted. "That's not really saying a lot," he answered with a smirk. "Considering that my expectations are rather low to begin with."  
"Then why don't you tell me how you feel, before I consider the possibility of bringing some good news?" Mycroft asked.  
"I feel as I have for the past six or seven weeks," Sherlock snapped, as he began pacing again. "I'm bored... I'm frustrated with this unnecessary confinement and forced inactivity. I need to work. I need to set after Moran before the trace gets cold. I need to get in touch with John, in case Moran comes after him. I need to..." he stopped and glared at Mycroft. "I need to get the hell out of here."  
"Captain Watson's files did not look suspicious, but we still can't be sure you can trust him, Sherlock. I don't know if I like the fact that he seems to be your main reason to leave the centre. Is he just a new addiction?" Mycroft asked.  
"Would you get over that?" Sherlock sighed. "John helped me with valuable information about Moran and we had some good conversations. I... I helped him with some personal issues and he listened to my ideas and helped me work things out. He is... He was my friend."  
"Once you can talk to him, I will keep a close watch over the two of you. Just to be certain, and there's no discussion about this." Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed. "But there is something I need to tell you about him."  
"Screw you, Mycroft," Sherlock said calmly and walked to the window. "I don't want to know whatever potentially incriminating thing from his past you have dug up. I know him well enough to know that he's a good man. A man that can be trusted."  
"He's been shot." Mycroft pressed his lips together and studied Sherlock's face.  
Sherlock whirled on him. "What? When?" Then he gasped. "Is he...? No, of course he isn't, you said I could talk to him. It was Moran, wasn't it? And he got away, didn't he? I told you he would be coming for John. And you didn't stop him. And you let him get away. Again." He hadn't even realised he had approached Mycroft before he was practically looming over him. He paused for a moment, then took a step back and turned away. "How is he?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.  
"Good lord, all that emotion," Mycroft huffed, raising an eyebrow. "He is... alright, considering. Shot in the shoulder, lying in St. Bart’s in London. And when you told me we had to look for Moran, it had already happened."  
"Already happened?" Sherlock spat. "That was... That was months ago and you never told me?"  
"I saw no reason to bother you with the information. There was enough on your mind," Mycroft answered.  
"Bother me? Bother me?" Sherlock had to fight down the urge to grab Mycroft by the collar and pull him to his feet. "He is my friend and he was hurt. I could have been there for him. I should have..." Then he realised something. "He doesn't know, does he? That it was Moran?" He studied Mycroft. "And no one's told him what happened to me. All this time, he has been thinking that I just lost interest in him. That I couldn't be bothered to get in touch."  
"Sometimes when people come out of rehab, they want to start their lives all over. You can get away from him now. If you want. You don't owe him anything," Mycroft said calmly.  
Sherlock smiled wryly. "You know, that's not a bad idea. Except that maybe John isn't the one I should leave behind when I start a new and better life."  
Mycroft chuckled mirthlessly. "Can't help with that, I'm afraid. But if you are certain that you want to meet him, I can bring you to him. Remember the good news I was here to bring you? You are allowed to leave the centre, as soon as you feel ready to do so."  
Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. Any snide remark or poorly veiled insult fell away. "I can leave?" Then his brain caught up completely. "I can go to see John? Now?"  
"There is a car waiting. If you truly think there is an advantage in spending your time with a man of mediocre intellect, it can as well bring you to the hospital," Mycroft said with a small shrug of his left shoulder.  
Sherlock grinned. "Oh, shut up, Mycroft," he said in a tone that could almost be called fond. He glanced around the room. "My things...?"  
"I will have them sent over to your flat in Baker Street. Unless you let me find you a more appropriate place...?"  
"Like on your doorstep?" Sherlock asked, as he put on his coat. "No, thank you." With a final, not too convincing glare at his brother, Sherlock was out the door.  
...  
The drive to London passed in a blur. John was alive. John had been shot by Moran, but he was alive. And he was here. In London. Sherlock had so many questions. And so much to tell.  
It wasn't until he was standing outside John's room at St. Bart's, that he realised that John might not be too thrilled with him just showing up like this. They had been in almost constant communication, which had been abruptly cut off when Sherlock left Mycroft's place. And just as Sherlock had been kept in the dark about what had happened to John in Afghanistan, no one had told John about Sherlock being held captive by Moran or his brother. No one had, thankfully, told him about the drugs or Sherlock's part in Moran's decision to go after John. Which meant that John must surely have concluded that Sherlock had simply lost interest. That he had stopped writing because he had no further use for John and that he had no wish to keep in touch for any other reason. Had John been angry? Hurt? Or just... indifferent?  
Sherlock cringed at the thought, then shook himself. This was so unlike him. Why would he care what this army doctor thought? How he had felt about Sherlock's 'disappearance'? He was not here to make excuses or explain. He was here to ask questions. To hopefully fill in more pieces of the puzzle, so that he could finally see the whole picture that was Moran.  
And yet, he could not deny that he was feeling more than a little nervous as he pushed the door open and stepped into the room to meet Doctor John Watson for the first time.  
John was sitting on the bed, his eyes on the telly and a bored frown on his face. But in the blink of an eye, his gaze was on Sherlock. He looked surprised, as was to be expected, but also... disturbed?  
"What are you doing here?" John asked, incredulity clear in his voice.  
"Visiting..." Sherlock frowned. This had clearly been a mistake. He shouldn't have come. He should have... "I should have called first, I know..." he blurted. "But I did not have your number. And I did not know... I only just got out today."  
John kept staring at Sherlock, not quite believing that it was him. Sure, he looked like the image he had been talking to on his computer. Although his voice had never seemed so incredibly deep there. Or maybe he had just forgotten. After all it had been so long. And now he showed up here, without a warning, without even letting him know he was still alive. For all John knew, Sherlock could as well be a ghost. He sure was pale and thin enough for it.  
"Out of where?" John asked.  
"Uhm..." Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off John. He looked different in person. But it was more than just the lack of a computer screen between them. He had changed. A lot. "You... You've been ill," Sherlock muttered.  
John raised his eyebrows at him. "I'm in a hospital, Mr. Detective."  
Sherlock couldn't help but smile at John's attitude. "Yes. You've been shot. But you've also been ill. From exposure after you were wounded, right?"  
John frowned. "So you got a whole file on me but you decided that you'd only check on me now. Why? What do you need?"  
"I..." Sherlock frowned. Of course he didn’t have a file. "I've been... out of the loop. I only heard about the... incident... today." John wasn't just resentful. Or recovering. He was hurt. Deeply hurt. Sherlock gasped. "He got her too, didn't he? Lieutenant Morstan?"  
John closed his eyes. "I don't want to talk about her." Not with him. Not now. John still wondered if he shouldn't tell Sherlock to leave him alone, but he couldn't bring himself to it. He really had missed him.  
Sherlock nodded. He could respect that. He could understand if John didn't feel he could trust Sherlock anymore. But he couldn't bring himself to leave. So instead he walked over to the chair facing the bed and sat down. "I am very very sorry for what happened."  
John swallowed. "You have to tell me what happened to you. I can't just... just accept that you're here." He wasn't going to cry, not with Sherlock looking at him like this.  
"I..." Sherlock sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I left Mycroft's place. I was going to get out of London but was picked up by one of Moran's men."  
"What happened?" John asked. If Sherlock just kept talking, he could focus on his breathing for long enough to feel stable again.  
"Moran was happy to see me," Sherlock said, looking down at his hands. "He still needed me for... testing."  
John frowned.  
Sherlock glanced up at him. "The drugs..." he said. "He wanted me... Well, he still wanted Thomas Stevenson to test the quality of the drugs they were dealing. And I don't mean laboratory conditions..."  
"But you didn't do it, of course," John said.  
"I had no choice," Sherlock said. "Well, yes... I could have let him kill me..."  
John's eyes widened. "God. Couldn't you get away?"  
Sherlock shook his head. "No. He didn't let me out of his sight and the man is... as you know... quite dangerous."  
"Then what happened? You can't have been with him for three months," John said.  
"No. It was more like a week. I'm not entirely sure. The days did become quite blurred at some point." Sherlock looked at John for a moment, unsure if he should tell him what happened. Would John blame him for putting Moran on him? Would he blame him for Lieutenant Morstan's death? He might, but Sherlock could also see that if he wanted to stay in touch with John, to rebuild their friendship, he could not lie to him. Not about something like this. And he found that he really did want that. That, in fact, it was the most important thing right now. So he took in a deep breath and began explaining. About how he had been saved and what Mycroft had told him about the experimental drug. About what he remembered revealing while under its influence. And what he suspected he might have said.  
John sighed. “You should have run when you could. I mean, before this. As soon as you had seen how Moran treated you.”  
"I know," Sherlock said. "And I'm sorry. I can understand why you will not want to see me again. It is after all my fault that your friend died. I just thought I owed it to you to explain everything in person."  
John looked confused. "How is that your fault?"  
"If I had stayed away from Moran. If I hadn't let him fill me up with chemicals, he would not have come after you..." Sherlock sighed. "It was Moran who shot you. You and the other soldiers. I cannot prove it, but I know it could only have been him."  
John sighed. "You say it yourself. It was Moran who shot us. Not you. And it wasn't like you had much of a choice with the drugs, if I understand it right. It's not your fault they made you tell things. I'd much rather blame Moran than you." He rubbed his face and was silent for a while.  
"That still does not change the fact that it would not have happened, were it not for me," Sherlock muttered, looking at his hands again.  
"Did Moran get away?" John asked.  
Sherlock nodded without looking up. "I was the last one to see him. When he was trying to strangle me. My brother tells me that he has not resurfaced. He is probably with his boss."  
"Fuck," John mumbled. Again he fell quiet for a moment. Fucking Moran. He had pulled Mary right into Moran's vision. Or maybe this meant that Moran had planned to shoot Mary as well? But what did it matter? She was dead, he survived. It wasn't fair and knowing that it had been that bastard only made him feel worse.  
He decided to focus on something else. "Couldn't you mail in rehab? I could have used a word."  
Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft wouldn't let me near a computer or anything else I could have used to get online. He... He does not trust you." Sherlock tried to hide a shy smile. "That was why I ran away in the first place. He took away my laptop, to stop me from writing to you..."  
John couldn't help a chuckle. "Really?" Apparently Sherlock's big brother really reduced him to a child. "So how long have you been out now?"  
Sherlock looked at the clock on the wall. "74 minutes," he said, grinning sheepishly.  
John stared at him. "Really?"  
Sherlock laughed. "Have I lost your trust so completely that you must doubt everything I say?"  
John still looked a little dazed. "No, but... That's not a very long time. Did you come here straight away?"  
Sherlock nodded. "Mycroft let me use his car. So apparently he's not as completely against you anymore. Maybe Moran shooting you, proved to him that you are at least on the right side in all of this. He still thinks you are bad for me of course."  
John smiled. "What's so bad about me?"  
"Oh, I don't know. It does seem that my life took on a rather... unfortunate direction after getting to know you," Sherlock teased.  
"Hey! You were the one contacting me!" John said, crossing his arms in mock indignation.  
"Yes. But such a minor detail will not deter my brother from any preconceived notion of his. He has decided you are out to harm me, and nothing can change his mind about that. At least not for now."  
John smiled. "Good thing you never listen to your brother, then."  
Sherlock grinned. "He did say that getting out of rehab was a good opportunity to start a fresh. Maybe cut you out of my life." He raised a questioning eyebrow.  
"You could easily have done that," John said, his expression growing a little darker again. "I must admit I hadn't expected you anymore."  
Sherlock sighed. "I know. And I am sorry about that. If you want, I will of course leave you alone from now on. I just wanted to explain..."  
John gave him an earnest look. "I'm glad you have come, Sherlock."  
After a long pause in which he studied John's face and posture, analysed his tone to make absolutely sure that he meant it, Sherlock smiled and relaxed. "I am glad too," he said. "I... I would like it if we could continue being friends."  
John smiled, also feeling rather relieved. "Me too. But don't disappear for three months again, okay?"  
Sherlock grinned. "I won't, if you promise not to get shot again."  
John smirked. "I'll try." Then his face fell a little. "Not that I expect they'll ever send me back."  
"No. They probably won't. But you don't really have to go to Afghanistan to be shot at, you know. People do get killed right here in London."  
"You know how to put someone at ease," John chuckled.  
"Oh, you wanted to be put at ease?" Sherlock grinned. "Then I suggest getting a nice little place in the country. There are villages in England that haven’t seen a murder for decades. And only a few hunting accidents a year."  
John huffed. "No, thanks. I really wish I can find myself a place in London."  
Sherlock nodded. "I will be happy to help. Do you know how your financial situation will be? Do you get a pension or will you be looking for work?"  
"A pension, but... well. London is expensive." John bit his lip.   
"Yes. Especially central London. But then again, if you don't have to worry about commuting, there are other options. Less expensive boroughs."  
John shrugged. "I'll see what I do. They'll keep me here for at least a week longer, anyway."  
"Then we have some time to find you a place," Sherlock said. "If you want, I can bring my laptop with me tomorrow and we can start searching."  
John smiled. "You're coming back tomorrow?"  
Sherlock hesitated, not sure if it had been a presumptuous suggestion. "If it's okay with you..."  
John grinned. "I'm looking forward to it."


	15. Commentary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is being posted at the same time as the last chapter. If you’ve missed the end of the story in chapter 14, you should probably go back and read that first.

Jlocked:  
So, another story is finished and it’s time to look back on how it came to be. This one was quite a leap for us as writers, I think, because it was the first time we weren’t writing about ‘our’ Sherlock and John. Once again we had a lot of ideas for a new story, but the one we ended up using wasn’t really one of ours.

TLoP:  
My friend Fie (who has made a wonderful cover, which you can see on top of chapter 1) had given me the idea for a story with John in Afghanistan and Sherlock in London, where they would get to know each other via email. It already existed some time before we were looking for a new idea. In the original idea, Sherlock would act like he was a woman, and John would go through a whole crisis once he knew that the person he had fallen in love with was actually a man. But as our idea took shape, the acting-like-a-woman part didn’t really fit in.

Jlocked:  
Yes, I think it was me who objected. I wasn’t really sure we could make it work. If we were writing the whole thing from John’s pov, then we would either have to be very obvious about the identity of the ‘woman’ or risk some readers not ‘getting it’. (Am I insulting our readers by assuming they wouldn’t figure it out? Sorry. I mean, how many of you guys would have wanted to read a story about John having an online relationship with some random woman while he was in Afghanistan?)  
And with shifting viewpoints, it might just end up being silly. At least if I was writing Sherlock (which, of course, I am). But I really loved the idea of them exchanging emails and getting to know each other that way, so I suggested that Sherlock could be his usual charming self, writing to John for information, and then they would begin communicating about other things and a friendship would gradually evolve.

TLoP:  
How dare you insult our readers? Everyone would know it could only be Sherlock, for John. Except for Mary. And the nurse in the city. And… Sssh!  
Anyway, if Sherlock started mailing John, he needed a case. Something John could provide information about.

Jlocked:  
Yes. But what could Sherlock have to ask an army doctor in Afghanistan about? Not technical information, because he could just as easily have gotten that from someone in London, or done the research himself. So it had to be about a specific situation of perhaps a fellow soldier. And then it hit me: Moran! (No, Moran didn’t hit me. He hit Sherlock. A lot!) If Moriarty was beginning to surface in London, then it was quite possible that Moran would be the first one to catch Sherlock’s attention. So getting some background on the colonel made sense. Stamford had of course told Sherlock about John and then we were off. Except, we needed someone to interact with John in Afghanistan, so it wouldn’t just be all ‘web-based’ on his part.

TLoP:  
Which was why we brought Mary in. It was Jlocked’s idea to mess with things and give him a female friend whom others assumed meant more to him, and of course a Mary is always a great source of angst… Certainly because we (well, at least John and I, but I guess the readers as well) really got to like her.

Jlocked:  
Yes, we did get quite fond of Mary along the way. Which I think is why I made her so clingy by the end. I kind of had to justify to myself that killing her was okay. But, I generally like killing characters, so it wasn’t that hard. And she was in the way.  
So we had a basic premise: Sherlock was asking about Moran and John was boinking Mary. Still kind of a short story. But we began writing and then the plot just evolved on its own. The dead agent in London and the captured and tortured civilians in Afghanistan added more depth to the story. But then Sherlock got the ‘brilliant’ idea to start working for Moran to get closer to him.

TLoP:  
She’s always so nice, our Jlocked.  
But indeed, with Sherlock being an idiot (or ‘brilliant’ as Jlocked would call it), so much was happening, that by times it was hard to let the boys find time to mail each other. At the same time, it was hard to find something interesting to do for John, partly because I simply don’t know enough about army stuff, and research didn’t always help me out. So we brought in that other sunshine, Miller.

Jlocked:  
Poor guy. He was just intended to be a jerk who would bug John about his relationship with Mary. And possibly cause some trouble. But then TLoP got the idea that he too could have known Moran, so that John would have to talk to him to get information. I think we were actually writing the conversation between them when I ‘realised’ that the man had been raped by Moran and that that was the cause of much of his hostile behaviour. He really ended up becoming quite the tragic figure. Shooting him didn’t help of course. (Or did we blow him up? I can’t remember.)

TLoP:  
Yes, it was a little unfortunate that John didn’t have many friends in Afghanistan… We couldn’t shoot Mary (yet), but we needed something for John to fuss about. Or rather someone. And if Miller had gotten reckless after John had brought up painful memories, he had enough reason to feel guilty. Or so he would believe.

Jlocked:  
Okay, so Moran was an abusive prick. So why not let him abuse Sherlock as well? We did have some debate about how much of a ‘relationship’ Sherlock and Moran should have. I think we managed to pull off a ‘standard’ abusive relationship without them actually ever having feelings for each other. But Sherlock definitely got trapped in it.  
Am I getting ahead here? Should we mention Jane and the reason for her wonderfully exotic name?

TLoP:  
Why not? You practically beg me to tease you. Those who have read the commentary for When their paths crossed* may remember that our dearest Jlocked doesn’t always remember difficult names (of aliens, but also of random women, actually). So at some point she said that all the women in stories should just be called Jane. And for the next new female character we made, there was of course no other choice.  
Not that it helped. She still managed to forget Jane’s name, twice. Which was even worse than calling Mary ‘Molly’. Poor Jlocked, all those confusing names.  
*(When their paths crossed is the sequel to What have we become and has not been published here yet, because we are revising the chapters posted on fanfiction.net before we put them here.)

Jlocked:  
Yes, well, by then I had told Jane that it would be a lot easier if all women were just called Jane. Isn’t that right, Jane?

TLoP:  
Absolutely, Jane. And I immediately agreed that it wasn’t confusing at all.

Jlocked:  
Confusing as it was, we did manage to have a lot of fun with the Jane-plot. And get Sherlock beaten up. It turned out that that first real beating was actually quite significant for how the story evolved from then on. Because of Jane never showing up at Baker Street, Sherlock had to return to Moran. But going back to the man after what had happened, did define their relationship from then on. Moran took it as a permission to treat Sherlock anyway he wanted. And he did have his own frustrations to vent, of course. (Oh… Are we mentioning that? Oops. Spoilers, I suppose.)

TLoP:  
Spoilers!  
The worst was of course that Sherlock didn’t come to meet John, because he seemed to prefer being beaten up. Certainly while John was having such a hard time with his sister, that was a bad move.

Jlocked:  
Yes, the meeting-that-never-happened. It was actually one of our earliest ideas, I think. Along with having Sherlock in rehab and John in the hospital at the same time. The fact that it was Moran who sent them there, was just a happy coincidence really. I love when everything comes together like that.  
The plot took its final form rather late. I remember waking up one morning and just having the whole thing finished in my head. So I typed this ridiculously long message on my phone to tell about my brilliant idea. (Couldn’t be bothered to get up and find my laptop. I actually think I managed it without too many typos…) Only I had to wait even longer than usual for a reply (one of us tends to get up a lot earlier than the other one in the mornings), because TLoP was in a different time zone. As with our first story, What have we become, our best ideas seem to arise when one of us is visiting the UK. A great excuse for going there as often as possible, I think.

TLoP:  
I agree! And as always, it truly was brilliant. Funny that no matter who is in the UK, it’s Jlocked who has the good ideas :P  
Anyway, in the end everything would be alright. Well. Except that Mary was dead, John was shot, Sherlock had ended up in a hospital before being bored to death in rehab, and the two boys not hearing from each other and missing each other… But yes, everything was happy rainbows. Because in the end they would finally meet.

Jlocked:  
Yes. It was all quite lovely. And we had a lot of fun along the way. Like a period where we just couldn’t seem to get Sherlock’s name right. I think my dear co-writer was the one who started it. What was it that you called him?

TLoP:  
Sherlcock, followed by your Shelock, Shellock and Sherlick, and there was a point where Sherlock was very high and I called you Lcoked… It just didn’t stop. Our fingers kept slipping. But at least we remembered his name.

Jlocked:  
Yes, and we did write a rather sweet little side-story about Freud. But we’ll save that for another time.

TLoP:  
Right. After our “break”...

Jlocked:  
Yes, because we are going to take a break from the thrilling world of fanfiction. What can I say? We just can’t be bothered anymore…

TLoP:  
Which is why we have at least two other ideas for fanfiction, one of which is a sequel for Between Frontlines - it’s not over yet, but it will just have to wait. Of course, the more kudos/favourites and reviews we get, the sooner we might be called back to this universe ;)

Jlocked:  
So I guess this is it. Bye for now. But do not fret. We will return.


	16. Sequel

We couldn't stay away any longer and have begun publishing the sequel. It is called _New Fronts_ and can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1216864).

 


	17. Request

Dearest subscribers, dearest readers,

We submitted this story to the fanfiction novel contest on Inkitt.com. It would mean a lot to us if you simply left a like on the story by clicking the heart (scroll to the bottom of the page to find this).

You can find _Between Frontlines_ here: <http://www.inkitt.com/stories/35668>

We also entered another of our stories, _Sherwood_. Here, too, we would like to ask for your support. Link: <http://www.inkitt.com/stories/36230>

Thank you so much for helping us. It’s just a click, but it means a lot to us, as rising in votes will make more people read our stories.

Jlocked & The Lady of Purpletown


End file.
